The Bombshell
by Jael.Rice.1
Summary: When a shrinking violet from District 5 is Reaped into the 66th Hunger Games, she is convinced that she will soon join the ranks of tributes who died within the first week. Can she rely on her wits in order to survive? Or will brawn beat brains once again?
1. Chapter 1

"Ada, what do you think you're doing? "

I let go of the two crooked pins that are jammed in the keyhole of my apartment's front door and turn around to find my dad standing in the hallway. He walks up to me with a frown that makes the wrinkles and creases on his face more pronounced. He is still wearing his work clothes with the shiny brass security badge pinned to his chest.

_How long have I been out here?_ I ask myself, staring at the badge.

Dad works an eight-hour shift as a security officer at the Snow Dam, one of the biggest power plants in District 5. He leaves at eight o'clock in the evening, on the dot, the same time I get back after my own four hour stint on the Snow Dam's maintenance crew. Then I don't see him again until the morning, when I'm walking to school and he's coming back from work. I try to calculate the hours and determine what time it is, but my mind doesn't seem to be working. I keep thinking that it is seven in the morning, but I may have lost time. As usual, I went to bed at 10:15 last night, but I only got a few hours of sleep. The rest of the night was spent trying to get back to sleep. When that didn't work, I decided to pass the time by picking locks. So, if I take that into account…

"It's eight forty-five," Dad says, interrupting my train of thought. "You know you can sleep in today, right?"

He looks at me, then at the bent, cut up paper clips sticking out of the keyhole, and then at me again. He looks down at the clothes I'm wearing and cocks his head to one side. I've been wearing a blue plaid dress for three days now. And why not? It's clean. It's the one dress I feel comfortable in. And I like it. Slowly, I put two and two together to realize that he might be thinking of something else entirely. I want to open my mouth and scream, "No! This isn't what it looks like!"

But he beats to the punch.

"Did you forget your house keys?"

I frantically shake my head. No! Never! As proof, I reach into the front of my dress and pull out the keys that I always wear around my neck. There are two keys, one to let me into the building and one that opens the apartment, that dangle on a length of blue ribbon. Dad made the necklace for me when I was six and just about to start school. If I ever came home before he or Mother did, I could let myself in rather than wait all day in the hall for them.

"Then tell me. What's going on here?" he asks, pointing to the paper clips.

"I wanted to try it out." I've been interested in lock picking for a while now. Maybe a couple of months, or so. In the last few weeks, I've been testing out new techniques with a variety of household implements like hairpins, safety pins, a bit of a broken fork, coat hangers, and screwdrivers.

I'm even making plans to build an electric lock pick. Gathering the materials will be a challenge, and I'll need to rely on books and what I learned from taking apart and rebuilding old electronics. There aren't that many people in 5 who share my passion for inventing. Well, besides my friend Herman.

Herman LaPorte has been my best friend ever since we were eight-years-old. Like me, he is interested in anything relating to the sciences and inventing. But even he'll grow disinterested after a while. Sometimes, when I try talking about plans for a new experiment or a project, he'll zone out. He'll just stare off into space and bob his head, murmuring "uh-huh" or "yeah" or "okay". It's kind of annoying.

To be honest, I think I get that way too if he babbles on about geology for too long. I'm sorry, but I don't see what is so interesting about rocks. Or venturing out to the desert, located on the outskirts of town, and looking for what he calls "mineral samples".

"Really?" Dad doesn't sound interested, maybe even a little weirded out. I realize that I should have lied, even though I am a terrible one at best. I do appreciate how he puts up with all this. Lock picking isn't my first odd hobby. My room, with its messy array of plants, malfunctioning inventions, blueprints, home-made mechanical toys, books on electrical currents, and dam-making guides, stands as testament to the fact. "So, how did you learn this?"

"I taught myself," I explain. "Lock-picking isn't all that difficult. All you need is something to fit into the lock, preferably something long, thin, and metallic, and a lot of patience."

"You think you can give me a demonstration?"

I nod my head. Steadying my hold on the tension wrench that is secured firmly in the lower part of the keyhole, I rake the top paper clip over the pins inside. After a minute of raking the clip and pushing the pins up, I can hear them strike the cylinder with a loud "click". I twist the knob to my left and, to my great relief, the door swings open.

Dad flashes me a grin that suddenly makes me feel uneasy. One hand reaches out to grab my shoulder, but before he can even touch me, I flinch and jerk my shoulder away. Dad frowns and withdraws his hand.

"Sorry," I squeak.

He shakes his head. "It's my fault. I forget how much you hate that."

I stagger to my feet while Dad holds the door open. "Ladies first," he says.

I stand still. He keeps one hand in his pocket and the other on the knob.

"I promise I won't touch you."

"Promise?"

He nods his head. I have no other choice but to take him at his word. We get inside, and I make sure to put as much distance between me and him as possible. The apartment is so small, I can walk ten paces from the front door to my bedroom.

"Make sure you put on something nice. It's Reaping Day," Dad adds.

I freeze up at the mere mention of Reaping Day. Panic surges through me like an electrical current as I try to steady my breath. Although this will be my seventh and final Reaping, I dread it more than the others. Not because being picked serves as an automatic death sentence, and not because of the chance that I will lose Herman if his name is drawn.

It's because I can't stand the crowds that congest the District square on that day. I hate that constricting feeling of bodies pressed up against you, crushing your bones and squeezing your breath, your life, out of you. Someone's breath against my skin might as well be that of a Mutt closing in on me. Everything suddenly gets amplified. Noise echoes throughout the District, like we are enclosed in a dome. Colours are sharper, brighter. Your skin becomes more sensitive to the sandpaper-like texture of a wool dress or a cold and slippery feel of a silk shirt. There is too much going on.

And the worst part is that you can't leave that horrible place. The Peacekeepers stand guard and expect you to smile and be happy and celebrate. I can do that, but after a while, it gets to be too much.

The way I see it is that everyone in District 5 are like the solar farms located on the outskirts of town. They can absorb energy and run on that all day long. Well, I can't. I'm the battery that needs to be recharged or else I'll cease to function.

* * *

My hands tremble as I change into a dark blue dress with purple and white flowers on the print. On a taller girl, it would look like it has short sleeves and a knee-length skirt. On me, however, the sleeves nearly touch my elbows and the skirt reaches past the mid-calf. I try wrapping an old belt around my waist, but it still looks like I am wearing a sack. I hate this dress, but new clothes are just one of those things we can't afford. And even if we had the money, it would be hard to find anything that fits me right.

I spend the next few minutes in front of the cracked, stained mirror hanging on the bedroom door trying to make myself look pretty. There isn't much I can do. Make up and jewelry are luxuries I could only dream of owning. My hair is too short to style into braids or decorate with pins and ribbons. I try biting my lips and pinching my cheeks until they are flushed to a bright pink, but they quickly fade back to a pale beige.

Honestly, I don't see the point of even looking nice for the Reaping. I have never been picked. Why start now? Chances are, some kid from the poor side of town is going to get chosen because she took out tesserae over fifty times. I only have seven slips to my name because Dad won't let me get tesserae. He told me that if I did, I'll be grounded until my thirty-fifth birthday.

I also don't see why we even have to be herded into the District square for this. Why not do a preliminary Reaping in the weeks leading up to it? Every residential area in 5 draws out a name of a boy and a girl for the final drawing on Reaping Day. That way, the square is less crowded and I don't have to leave my apartment unless my name is picked.

I look up to see the photograph of my mother taped to the mirror. She died when I was eight. Lung disease. Presumably from breathing in the toxic fumes of the coal-powered plant in the rural village where she grew up. Towards the end of her life, she had wasted away to a shriveled husk with stick-like limbs and a bony torso. She couldn't breathe without choking or wheezing or breaking into coughing fits that left her writhing on the bed until she slipped into unconsciousness. I couldn't bring myself to go near her. She looked like a monster. When she finally died, nobody would let me see her body. Instead, Dad gave me the photograph and told me it was better to remember her for who she was before she was sick.

My mother, with her olive skin, shiny black curls, and soft, almost alluring, amber eyes, was absolutely stunning. And it pains me to say that I could never be as beautiful as her.

With my dark brown hair and eyes and my small stature, I am easily my father's daughter. To make matters worse, I'm nearsighted and have to wear a pair of glasses with these giant, almost magnifying glass-types, lenses. When I was little, the kids at school would call me "Bug Eyes". Cripes, I hated that nickname. I hated it even more when Dad told me we couldn't afford a nicer pair. He always told me that looks aren't everything, but I don't believe it. Sure, brains are more valued in District 5. Only the smartest can go on to be systems analysts, maintenance managers, and engineers. But at school, all the pretty girls have boyfriends. And where the Hunger Games are involved, it is always the gorgeous tributes that have a better chance of survival.

That's what happened last year, with the tribute from District 4, Finnick Odair. He was so beautiful, the Games commentators wouldn't stop gushing about him. The kid was fourteen years old and was getting all these ridiculously expensive sponsor gifts in the Arena. Capitol television went bonkers when he won. And I don't expect for things to be any different this year.

* * *

Dad stands at the kitchen counter, pouring coffee into two chipped mugs. The television, an old boob tube with rabbit ears, is tuned in to a live feed of the District 2 Reaping. I tune out Caesar Flickerman's coverage of the event as I grab one of the mugs and start gulping down the hot, bitter liquid.

"Hey!" Dad exclaims. "Slow down there. You'll burn yourself."

I don't care. I continue to chug the coffee until only the grounds remain. As I set the cup down, I start to feel jittery. My heart is racing and my knees slightly tremble, yet my mind is sharper and more focused. I relish the buzz that the coffee gives me, motioning for Dad to refill my cup, but he shakes his head.

"Sorry, but we have to ration," he explains.

Damn. I glance across the counter and notice that besides a couple of slices of toast and a sliced orange; there isn't much for breakfast. The orange is a welcome treat though. They're so expensive, we only have them twice a year: one on my birthday and the other on Reaping Day. The only fruit we can afford are apples, which are plentiful here for some reason. Fresh vegetables are also difficult to procure since District 11 is our only source of produce, and most of what they grow is sent directly to the Capitol. There are families in our building who figured out a way to grow vegetables in their units, so there is a roaring trade of goods and services in exchange for food. It helps further our otherwise meager rations of tessera grain and oil and the overpriced bread and meat from the market.

I wolf down the toast, but as soon as the girls on television rush the stage, shoving and kicking down the others in a desperate bid to volunteer, I feel my stomach start to churn. Everything below my ribcage numbs. The crust of bread I was holding just a minute ago clatters back onto the plate and the grainy bread in my mouth feels like I am chewing on sand. Food suddenly loses it's appeal.

"I'm going to go see Herman," I mutter, pushing the plate away from me.

"You sure? The Reaping is i-"

"I know. I- I just need to be out for a little bit."

"Alright," he says, his voice dropping in tone until it is as soft as my own. "Just don't be late."

I nod in understanding, taking my share of the orange as I leave the apartment. I'm not hungry, but I think Herman would appreciate the treat.

* * *

Outside, the hallway is buzzing with activity. Families file out of their units and make their way to the stairwell as I run ahead of them, ducking past everyone I encounter. A couple of people shout out, but I can't stop to apologize. I scramble down five flights of stairs until I reach the basement floor where Herman's family lives.

The unmistakable stench of mildew and rot greets me as I walk into the hallway. Mr. LaPorte, Herman's dad, makes extra money on the side by making repairs in the building, but not even his care can save this place. Cold water seeps through my canvas sneakers as I tread across the drenched carpet. Water and sewage surge through the leaky, rusty pipes overhead. The harsh florescent bulbs flicker on and off before one dies out, sending a long section of hallway into darkness.

I stop at one of the middle doors. Rust has started to form over the brass 'B4' nailed to the surface; the reddish stains bleed out onto the peeling, dark blue paint. Just as I am ready to knock on the door, it smashes into me, sending me to the ground. I shut my eyes as my side hits the ground before rolling onto my back, wincing as my dress soaks up the stagnant water from the soggy carpet.

"Dammit, Herman! Do you ever watch where you're going?" Mr. LaPorte bellows.

"It's not like he crashed into someone," Harvey, Herman's younger brother, adds. Footsteps move closer to me. "Oh, no wait, he did. Again."

Mr. LaPorte curses loudly as I hear more footsteps coming.

"Ada?" Herman shouts. I open my eyes to find him looming over me. His long, shaggy red hair hangs in his bespectacled eyes as he leans in closer. I sit up, but not before I almost butt heads with him. "Oh shit! I'm so sorry. Are you alright?"

"Fine," I sputter. But that doesn't stop Herman from blubbering on about how sorry he is, how he didn't see me standing there, and how this will never happen again. I highly doubt the last part. Herman has a bad habit of running into, tripping over, or breaking things. Whenever he visits, Dad has to hide all of our fragile possessions. Herman reaches out and offers a hand, but I decline, preferring to get up on my own.

"Are you sure?" Herman asks as we walk out of the apartment, trailing behind his parents and brother.

"Yes! Happy now?"

Herman hurriedly nods his head as we continue walking. We don't talk on the way to the square. Nobody does. My mind comes up with every horrible scenario that could happen. My name is drawn. No! Herman's name is drawn. No, even worse, both our names are chosen!

I shudder at the possibility of being forced into the Games with Herman. There can only be one Victor, and I can't bear the thought of losing him. Herman LaPorte is the only friend I have. Ever since we were children, it has always been the two of us. We do everything together. If, by some miracle, I survived; it would be a very lonely life. And I can't think of anything worse than dying old and alone. You can only do so much with a spool of wire and a pile of scraps. If you have the skills, you can make it into anything you want. Anything but a friend.

Looking at Herman, I am convinced he wouldn't live very long in the Arena. With his extreme height and flaming red hair, he is like a walking target. On top of that, he is a klutz who could never stand up for himself against a schoolyard bully. Or a group of them. Every scuffle he ever got into with Gene Dwyer and his goon squad is proof of that.

"You see something you like?" Herman asks.

"Since when did you start wearing that?" I ask, pointing to the bow tie knotted at his throat.

Herman grins, tugging on the ends of the bow tie. "Since today. I found it in a box of Grandpa's old stuff. You like it?"

"You look like an old man," I reply.

"Yeah, well, you look like a little boy in a dress," Herman retorts.

We glare at each other for a minute before breaking down into laughter. Despite his jab, I can't find it in me to get mad at him. For one thing, with my short hair, I do look like a boy. The other is because when I'm with him, every time I see him, talk to him, my day suddenly becomes a little bit brighter. And I know he feels the same way because of the his face lights up when he sees me. No matter how awful our day has been, just being together makes it worthwhile.

As we walk towards the Justice Building, I cross my fingers and pray to any higher authority listening that Herman's name isn't drawn. Looking down, I notice that Herman is doing the same thing.

* * *

The square is milling with people by the time we arrive. I slightly choke on the hot and dusty air. District 5 is surrounded by desert. According to my teachers, we're located in what was once called "the American southwest". Not that it matters anymore. This place they call "America" collapsed hundreds of years ago, giving way to Panem. On the plus side, the vast emptiness of the desert allows us to build more power plants, electrical stations, and solar and wind farms while a river located in the southeast enables us to have the dams. Because of our close proximity to the Capitol, we can send electricity directly to them with little delay. For a District that doesn't have 1's gold and precious jewels, 2's Peacekeepers, or 4's beautiful Victors, we do pretty well. I once read that District 5 has one of the lowest rates of children taking out tesserae. But that might also be because we have the smallest population after the Capitol.

After a Peacekeeper registers our names in a massive ledger, Herman and I are ushered into the roped off square with all the other eligible kids.

"I'll see you after the Reaping," Herman reassures me. "Don't worry, we'll be fine. We'll get through this."

I nod my head before we are separated. Even though Herman is among one of the tallest men in the District, I quickly lose sight of him as I am pushed to one side with all the other girls. We are then quickly sorted into our appropriate age groups. Unlike previous years, where I was completely surrounded, I find myself leaning heavily against the thick rope that cordons us eighteen-year-olds from the stage. My breath hitches when I realize that I can't see Herman. The crowd closes in on me, constricting me. Quickly, I squeeze my eyes shut and tightly grip the rope in front of me.

Prospero DeWitt's high and airy Capitol accent fills my head and grates my ears as he chimes, "Good afternoon, District 5! And welcome to the Reaping for the 66th annual Hunger Games!" Tuning him out isn't an option. He has the kind of voice that, once you hear it, you can't get out of your head.

The drawling tone of President Snow's narration is easier to block out when the screens erected around the square and the Justice Building start to play that propaganda video they show every year. The one that they think justifies having the Hunger Games. As punishment for our ancestors rising up against the faraway evil that is the Capitol all those years ago, we have to sacrifice a boy and a girl for their stupid death match.

After all these years, you'd think the Capitol would just let it go. I doubt there's even anyone in 5 who is old enough to remember the Rebellion.

Minnie Babbitt, who lives across the hall from us, comes to mind. She is almost eighty, but her memory has deteriorated so badly, she can't even recall last week, let alone the names of her son and grandchildren. She probably can't remember a time before the Hunger Games.

"And now onto the fun part," Prospero squeals. "Ladies first, of course."

"Did he really just say that?" someone snarls from behind me before a hush sweeps over the audience. I can just imagine him moving closer to the glass bowl filled with the slips of paper containing the names of every teenage girl in District 5. Then he will snatch up the first slip his fingers touch. It's the same routine every year. The silence is unsettling, almost suffocating. We hold our collective breath in as he unfolds the paper. I grip the rope even harder, rubbing the rough, coiled texture against my skin until it starts to burn. After what feels like a century, he reads off the name.

"Ada Linus!"

My eyes snap open. Suddenly, all time suddenly comes to a halt. To my horror, everyone is staring at me. I can feel the wind knocked out of me, like I have been sucker punched in the stomach. That constricting feeling in my chest is getting tighter. My vision blurs as I feel lightheaded. My knees are shaking and the floor gives way as I fall into darkness.

* * *

"Everyone stand back! Give her some air!"

A rough hand is shaking my shoulder while someone continues shouting, "Are you alright?"

I let out a low moan, my eyes fluttering open to find myself facing a shiny, black and white

Peacekeeper's helmet. I let out this scream that sends everyone scurrying back. Before I can get away from him, he reaches out and clamps a big, gloved hand over my shoulder.

"She's alright," the Peacekeeper concludes. I struggle to get away from him, but he grips my arm even tighter. Pain shoots up from where he touches me. It's like there are a thousand needles sewn into his gloves. Another Peacekeeper joins in as they escort me up the stage. I want to kick them, but it's as if those needle-studded gloves are coated in a toxin that has paralyzed me from the waist down.

Everyone, Prospero, the two mentors, and the mayor sitting behind him, look bewildered, unsure of what to do next. If this is being broadcast all over Panem, I must be looking really stupid at this moment. No. Not stupid. I have just held up a sign that reads "Future Bloodbath Kill. Come and Get It" in big, bold letters.

I can't recall a Reaping, both here and in any other District, where someone fainted. Puking? Sure. Pissing their pants? Oh yeah. Screaming like a little girl? Too many times to count, especially from the boy tributes. But never fainting.

"Well, that was... something," Prospero remarks before moving on to selecting my District partner.

As he draws the unlucky boy's name, I stare down at my feet. I can't bring myself to face the audience. Not at the faces of people I have known my entire life. Dad, Herman, my teachers, my classmates. Nobody. I shut my eyes tightly and rub my hands together. It takes all my strength not to pass out again.

"Please not Herman, please not Herman," I mumble, "please not Herman."

"Kelvin Dugald!"

I let out a huge sigh of relief. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," I whisper over and over again like a chant. For a fleeting moment, I can see Herman from the corner of my eye. He looks like he is ready to volunteer. But I shake my head and mouth, "No. Don't you dare".

Herman may be smart, but he can be so impulsive. If he volunteers, he is going to be as dead as me. And I don't want to see him die.

Herman's look of determination slips into one of despair as he steps back into the crowd. Crying, I turn my head away from him and I peer over my glasses to see the boy who will be my District partner.

Kelvin Dugald isn't someone I recognize. He turns out to be a skinny fifteen-year-old of medium-height with bad acne, spiky black hair, and the bushiest pair of eyebrows I have ever seen. Shaking hands with him is like holding a fish; cold, limp, and clammy. He looks like he is ready to vomit.

With Kelvin and I as tributes, one thing becomes painfully clear. This year's Victor is not going to be from District 5.

* * *

The moment the Reaping ends, Peacekeepers hustle Kelvin and me into the Justice Building. They take us down a marble-lined hallway and put us in separate rooms. We only have a few minutes to say our good-byes.

The first person I see is Dad. He looks so broken when he walks in, his head bowed and his shoulders trembling. His mouth is slightly open and twisted in a frown, his large eyes are misty, and he is breathing heavily. It hurts me to see him like this because the last time I saw him like this was when Mother died.

"Daddy," I whimper, sounding less like an eighteen-year-old woman and more like a little girl.

"It's going to be alright," Dad says in a trembling voice.

Dad's lying. I can tell. He is as bad a liar as I am. Things won't be alright because I've seen it happen before. After Mother died, he tried to carry on with life. He did. But after a while, he started to break down. It was like he was still here, but his mind wasn't. He would sit and stare off into space or break down crying. It got so bad, I had to live with the family of one of Dad's friends for a few months before he could get back onto his feet. Although he is doing better now, there is always that chance that he could slip back into that state.

"No, it's not. Dad, don't lie to me. I think we both know what's going to happen."

Dad lets out a harsh sigh and stared back at me with those big, sad brown eyes of his. I look away, reaching for my house key necklace and pulling it over my head.

"Here," I say, holding out the keys, "I'm not going to need these anymore."

Dad shakes his head. "You keep them."

"But..." Dad holds his hand out, shushing me.

"Think of it as a tribute token," he explains, "a little something to remind you of home."

"But I'm never coming back."

"Yes, you will," he reassures me.

"In a body bag."

"Or as a Victor," Dad finishes. "Ada, smart people have won the Games before. You don't need to be some meathead Career to win. Look at the Victors from District 3! Look at Ravi Mazzarin!"

Ravi Mazzarin is one of our Victors. He won the 30th Hunger Games by evading the Careers, nicking their supplies, and tricking them into turning on their alliance partners. He then tricked his sole remaining competitor, a boy from District 6, into eating nightlock berries on the pretense that they should celebrate the fact that they have made it so far into the Games.

"But I'm not Ravi," I insist.

"No, you're Ada," Dad reminds me, "and the Ada I know doesn't need a sword to survive. All she needs is her brain. The Capitol will teach you survival skills. Learn as many as you can, but stay away from any weapons you don't know how to use. As long as you use your head and stay away from the Careers, you'll be alright."

I nod my head. It's all common sense advice. But I appreciate Dad's help.

"Can I ask you a favor?" Dad asks.

"What is it?"

"You think you can give your old man a hug?"

As much as I hate hugs, I can't refuse him. Taking a deep breath, I hold my arms out and wrap them around Dad's bony torso. He returns the gesture. I shut my eyes and block out the impulse to pull back. I hurt him enough today. I don't want his last memory of us together to be of me pushing him away. I already have a lifetime of doing that. For once, I want Dad to know that he has a daughter who loves him and who can show it.

Just then, a Peacekeeper marches into the room to take Dad away. He clasps me in his arms for one last time and plants a kiss on my head, something he hasn't done ever since I was a very small child. "I love you, Ada. And so would your mother. We love you very much."

"I love you too, Daddy," I shout. But the door slams shut between us, and I don't know if he heard me. I hope he did.

After Dad is Herman. He latches onto me, pulling me into a tight embrace. One arm wraps itself around my waist while the other snakes up my spine and holds me in place like a brace. His massive hand presses my head against his shoulder and I can feel the soft, feathery strands of his hair brush against my face. All the air is sucked out of my lungs as he pulls me closer to him. His long hair and the rough wool fibers of his sweater vest smothers my nose and mouth. I struggle, trying to push away, but he holds me ever closer.

"You can't give up," Herman chokes out. "No matter what happens, you can't give up."

"I- I don't think I can," I gasp. "Herman, if a-anything happens to me... I- I need you to look away. You have to look away. I don't want you to see me die."

"Don't say that!" Herman pulls away, but he doesn't let me go. Instead, he clamps his hands on my face. For someone who is so skinny, he has a strong grip. I can't look away. Talking is impossible. There is this intense pressure building up in my head, and if Herman holds me even closer, I think it will explode.

"You'll survive this," Herman whispers. "I know you can. You can think of a way to win this. You just can't give up."

I know this isn't true, but I don't have it in me to tell him. I open my eyes, and what I see sends my heart sinking to my stomach. Herman is crying. I've only seen Herman cry twice in his entire life. The first was when his grandfather died and the other was when Gene Dwyer and his goon squad assaulted him in a school bathroom five years ago.

I can't believe I am saying this, but for the first time in my life, I notice Herman's eyes.

His eyes aren't brown, like everyone else in 5. They're green. Not emerald green or sea green, but rather a nice shade of olive with brown specks in them. Now I wish I had noticed his eyes during the happier times in our short, shared life. I bet they are lovely. Here, they are glazed over with this look of pained desperation. And it's something I think will haunt me until I die.

Herman draws me back into one last embrace. I close my eyes and I rest my head against his shoulder

"I'll try," I whisper. But deep down inside, I know I can't keep my promise. All I can think about is how much I am going to let Herman down the moment my cannon sounds.

* * *

**A/N: I would really like to thank Better a Freak than a Fake (or, Stephanie) for being my beta reader. If you are reading this, thank you for this story would still be stuck somewhere on google documents. And also, thank you Chiri-tan for reading a section that won't happen until a lot later and giving me the encouragement to continue. Thank you both very much.**

***Edit 9/19* Reviewers have asked me various questions regarding the world-building of this story, so instead of just PM-ing them to explain, I'm going to use the author's notes at the end of each chapter to spout off facts and details that you guys might find interesting.**

**Let's begin:**

**1) Where District 5 is: I used two maps when deciding to place District 5. One is from the Hunger Games Adventures game and the other from Catching Fire. It's a good thing that District 5 in the movie is exactly where I hoped it would be. I always had a theory that District 5 was located somewhere along the Nevada/Arizona border and near Indio Valley in California The reason being is that the Hoover Dam is located in that area, and I drive past a lot of wind farms whenever I go to Palm Springs. Geographically speaking, that would be the prime place to build a power-based District. **

***Fun fact: Ada lives in the District capitol, known to locals as "Electric City", and is built where Las Vegas used to stand. **

**2) Ada's name does indeed come from Ada Lovelace. Linus is not a reference to the Linux computing systems: it's actually a shout-out to Lost that stuck.**

**3) She does have a mental disorder, but I would rather not name it because I want you, the reader, to come up with your own conclusion. I did research several disorders, including ADHD, anxiety disorders, and autism (specifically, Aspergers) and have a fairly good idea of what she has. Due to the lack of proper mental health facilities, I doubt she will ever have this disorder diagnosed.**


	2. Chapter 2

The next several hours are disorienting.

Camera-wielding reporters swarm the car, the train station, and the surrounding streets in a bid to get a good look at District 5's newest tributes. The cameras go off in big white flashes that leave black spots burned into my retinas, making my eyes tear up. With all the screaming, the yelling, the constant camera clicking, it feels like the whole world has gone to hell.

Kelvin, my District partner, stares out the window, looking absolutely dumbfounded. He strikes me as someone who has never been noticed in his life. Always sitting off to the sidelines, never getting any recognition. My teachers always made a point to recognize the brilliant students; so I don't think Kelvin was a particularly remarkable student. If he has friends, they overshadow him. If he has siblings, his parents probably paid more attention to them. I know the LaPortes are like that. Mr. and Mrs. LaPorte prefer Harvey over Herman because Harvey is the younger brother who is great at sports and has the huge following of friends and girlfriends to show for it. Herman just has good grades and me.

Kelvin starts to smile when we reach the train station. He flashes the reporters and camera operators a toothy grin and waves to them as we stand at the train door. I keep my head bowed down, shutting my eyes against the blinding flashes of bulbs going off. As soon as we are ready to leave, I rush inside. The train doesn't wait for us to get settled in before it departs. It lurches forward the moment the doors slide shut. I loose my balance and trip onto the carpet. Prospero offers to help me up, but I decline and pull myself up by a railing.

"While we're here, allow me give you the grand tour of the tribute train," Prospero says. He takes us down each compartment, rattling on about each room and its opulent decor. I just tune him out as I lag behind him and Kelvin. I couldn't care less about mahogany and crystal.

My mind grows increasingly numb the more I have to listen to this man talk. Prospero was tolerable in previous years because I only had to listen to him for an hour before parting ways. Now I am going to be stuck with this man until the Games start. His voice will be echoing through my head, on loop, until I am driven completely and hopelessly insane. The only way it will end is if I beg someone to put me out of my misery.

Finally, Prospero shows us to our private sleeping cars. When we get to the one designated for me, I am just ready to collapse.

I ignore his reminder that supper is in an hour when I slide the compartment door shut, cutting him off. The room is just as lavishly decorated as the other cars on this train. Too much so. The place seems to be dripping with silk, gold trim, and expensive knickknacks.

The bathroom, to my delight, is free from these sensory distractions. It's small and paved in a creamy white stone. Save for the low hum of the train, it's quiet. I curl up in the shower and let my eyes recover from the bombardment of colour they have just been exposed to. I feel completely and utterly spent. Nothing seems to want to work right. My body has just about given up while my mind is going haywire.

Images of Dad and Herman flash through my eyes; almost as if some mental projector has been turned on and is screening my thoughts on the white walls. What are they doing right now? On second thought, no. I don't want to know. Thinking about them is unbearably painful.

After a long time, I hear the bathroom door open.

"Hey, Ada, are you in here?"

That's not Prospero. That is definitely a girl's voice speaking. Older, sounding annoyed, and almost a little snotty, like some of the rich girls at school who think they are better because their parents are merchants or work for the mayors office. But the voice is mercifully free from that vulgar Capitol accent. I open my eyes and find myself facing Lianna Horvath, Victor of the 57th Hunger Games, and my mentor for the 66th Games.

I knew Lianna Horvath before she became famous because Minnie Babbitt's then-teenaged granddaughter despised her.

Dad used to send me over to the Babbitts for the afternoon when he wanted to be alone. I can still recall thumbing through Nadine Babbitt's science books while she and her friends sat around in a circle in her room. They would always gripe about how Lianna is always harassing them and getting away with it. At first, it started off with snide remarks about their clothes, their families, their lack of money, the fact that two of the girls had better grades than her, and that Nadine's boyfriend was better looking than her latest piece of arm candy even though Nadine spoke with a stutter and has several large moles on her face. Then it escalated to these really nasty rumors and pranks, one of which involved a firecracker placed in one girl's bag. Or, so I heard.

Honestly, I don't quite know the full extent of Lianna Horvath's bullying campaign because I was a nine-year-old who was more interested in basic mechanics than high school gossip.

What I do know is that Lianna had instigated this reign of terror because she was jealous of one of Nadine's friends, who was dating a boy she fancied. Apparently, because she is a pretty girl from a family who is part of the higher echelon of District 5 society, Lianna Horvath thought she was entitled to have any boy she wanted. When she couldn't have the boy of her dreams, she decided to take it out on his new girlfriend. Then when Nadine and the others tried to stand up for their friend, Lianna began to bully them as well.

Needless to say, Nadine and her friends rejoiced when Lianna was Reaped. And they were spitting mad when she came back to District 5 as a newly crowned Victor. You can't exactly forget the sounds of a quintet of furious teenage girls as their screaming and swearing echoing down the hall. Or the look of pure and utter devastation on Nadine's best friend's face when she saw her boyfriend, who was also Reaped that year, decapitated by the girl she despised during the final showdown.

Lianna stares down at me, her amber eyes narrowed to slits, chin held up high as if she already knew she was better than me. With her stylish clothing, long, shiny black hair, and perfectly made up face, she is the grown up rendition of my grade's resident mean girls.

"Sulking in the shower, aren't we?" she sneers. Any notion of self pity quickly evaporates. I'm starting to see why Nadine despised her. "Once you're done wallowing in the one-person pity party, pull yourself together, and go to the dining car. Dinner's been out for half an hour and you're taking too long to show up."

She leaves me sitting in the shower. For a few minutes, I contemplate just locking myself in the bathroom until we arrive in the Capitol. But I push that thought aside. For one thing, it sounds rather immature, locking myself somewhere to piss off my neighbor's childhood bully. Also, I don't think I want to invoke the wrath of Lianna Horvath. She did kill three people, including her own District partner, during her Games.

* * *

When I slide open the door to the dining car, I am greeted by a cacophony of clattering silverware, Prospero's vulgar Capitol accent, and Lianna barking orders at a waiter that bombards my ears. But not before the savory odor of roast beef puts me in a daze and clouds my judgement. I sway in place, unable to turn and run back to my room when Prospero exclaims, "Come join us!

His words are like a lure that hooks onto me and reels me up to the table before tying me me to my chair. Someone has already served out my portion: roast beef, a baked potato smothered in butter and chives, and buttered peas. Even though everything is too rich for my liking, I am eating as much as I can. After a lifetime of eating canned fruit and vegetables and cheap bread and coffee, I've never had anything so delicious.

Kelvin attempts to make small talk with me. He asks me questions about my family, my classes, what I do after school, if I like baseball and soccer, and the like. Or, questions of that caliber. I block out most of what he asks before he says something that has me dropping my fork.

"I see you with Herman LaPorte a lot. Do you know Harvey?"

Well, of course. They're brothers. Other than glimpses of him around the LaPorte's apartment, I don't see Harvey all that often though. And if I do, he's usually surrounded by his posse of friends. I certainly don't know him well. I know he plays baseball and soccer, he loves women, and his math grades are atrocious, but that's about it.

"Not really," I whisper.

"That's a shame," sighs Kelvin.

I scan Kelvin through the corner of my eye, seeing if I can pinpoint him to any one of Harvey's friends. I soon realize this is impossible. I can't remember what any of his friends look like. Maybe that's why I couldn't recognize Kelvin when he was called up.

"How do you know him?" I ask.

"Can you repeat that again? I can't hear you. You talk too quietly."

"How do you know him?" I repeat myself, raising my voice.

"Say what?"

I grip my fork and knife in my hands, resisting the urge to lose it. How many times do I have to repeat myself? Is Kelvin deaf?

"I said, 'how do you know him?'" I shout. Kelvin scoots his chair back at the force of my outburst.

"Okay! Okay! No need to go berserk," he exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air. "I just can't hear you well. You talk too quietly. And to answer your question, yeah, we're friends. Ever since the sixth grade."

"Are you close?"

"I think so. Harvey came by to say goodbye. Well, not really. He never said that this is goodbye or that this is the end or that I'm a dead man. He just told me to knock them dead and I told him that he better keep his hands off of my sister while I'm gone. I mean, I've been seeing him make googly eyes at Curie for months now. And I keep telling him that he isn't allowed to go out with my sister because that's not what friends do each other. But I'm pretty sure Harvey-"

I try tuning Kelvin out, but he talks so rapidly, his words mush together into a buzzing drone that fills the room. It's like someone has strung up several live Tracker Jacker hives all over the compartment. When ignoring him doesn't work, I try covering my ears, only to catch a glimpse of Prospero frowning at me.

"Don't do that, Ada. It's bad manners," he reprimands me in a muffled tone. I reluctantly take my hands off, only to recoil as my ears are bombarded by the deafening chaos surrounding me. It's like someone has grabbed a handful of long, sharp skewers and is now stabbing them into my skull, piercing my eardrums, my brain, and the back of my eyeballs.

I can't take it any more.

I push my chair away from the table, almost knocking it over as I dash towards the end of the car, trying to pry the sliding door open. It's stuck! I jerk on it some more, ignoring the shouts coming from behind me. After several tense seconds, that blasted door finally slides open and I take off for the hallway.

Behind me, Prospero is shouting for me to come back. Something about dessert and watching the Reaping recaps. But I could care less.

When I get back to my room, I collapse onto the soft, feather bed that takes up the most of the compartment. After today's series of meltdowns, I am just about ready to go into shutdown mode. My body has ceased working. Only my mind remains active, trying to recover from all the abuse that it went through today. Now that I am in a quiet place where I can cool down, the sharp pains caused by those imaginary needles subside to a dull throb.

I close my sore eyes and let the darkness take over.

* * *

"You should eat something. We'll be in the Capitol in an hour, and it's going to be a long day," implores Prospero as I down yet another mug of coffee. It's the morning after the Reaping, and everyone is sitting around the dining car table for breakfast. "Try the fried ham. It is divine."

I shake my head. "Not hungry," I grumble, reaching for the coffee carafe and pouring myself another mug. Meanwhile, Kelvin is shoveling down scrambled eggs, bacon, and oranges without a care in the world. How anyone can eat at a time like this is beyond me.

Prospero seems to be deaf to my response. He takes a pair of silver tongs and is ready to serve whatever is from the platters before I stick my arms out over my plate.

"I said, 'I'm not hungry!'" I snap before slumping back in my chair.

"Leave her alone," says Ravi, "if she doesn't want to eat, she doesn't want to eat."

"You can't just live on coffee for the rest of your life," Prospero points out.

I disagree. I've lived off of just coffee before. Granted, I've been told it's actually not good for me, but it's possible. Just to make him shut up, I take a slice of toast from a silver rack and bite into it.

"C'mon Ada," Kelvin interrupts, bits of food flying out of his mouth as he speaks, "live a little. When will you get to eat this again?"

I ignore him. I've been having toast and coffee for breakfast for years now. It's one of those habits that I have to stick to. It maintains some semblance of normalcy. Dad understands it and never questioned me about it.

"Didn't your mom teach you not eat with your mouth full?" Lianna snaps, glaring at Kelvin as she wipes the flecks of her dress.

"Which one?" Kelvin asks, cocking an eyebrow at Lianna's direction. Lianna rolls her eyes lets out a loud huff while Ravi shakes his head. They remind me of the teachers I used to have in school. They have the same responses whenever someone in class is being annoying.

Lianna curses under her breath as she gets out of her chair and leaves the dining car in a huff. Kelvin drops his fork, frowning as he slowly chews his food.

"But seriously, which one?" Kelvin asks us. "I have two moms. My mom or my stepmom?"

Is Kelvin even joking? I can't tell if he's being serious or being stupid. But it sounds like the kind of smart-ass excuse my classmates would use, so I'm leaning towards obnoxiously stupid. Ravi and Prospero stare at him and then at each other. No one says anything. How can you even respond to Kelvin anyway?

I continue chugging down my coffee despite Prospero's pleas for me to eat something other than toast. Despite the buzz from the caffeine, my head feels foggy and I find myself nodding off before snapping back.

Last night, I dreamed that I was in the Games. I would find myself standing in a heavily wooded forest, in the remains of a bombed out city, a sweltering jungle, or an arid desert. And every time there was always something after me. I have been chased down by packs of ravenous wolf Mutts, psychotic Career tributes, flocks of eagles with razor sharp talons and beaks, and swarms of flesh-eating insects. No matter how long or how fast I run, they always catch up to me. I wake up just as their sharp talons, their swords, their teeth bite into my skin to find myself in the lavish sleeping car of the tribute train, not my own bed back in 5. Then I would go back to sleep and that infinite loop of being pursued and killed will repeat itself.

"Ada? Are you alright?"

It takes me a minute to realize that I'm crying. My hands grip my hair as I stare down at my plate, trembling. To my horror, everyone is staring at me, probably wondering what is wrong.

Someone's hand tightens itself around my shoulder. I scream, jumping out of my seat and pressing myself up against the wall, scurrying away from the table until I am almost to the door. Prospero pulls his hand away, eyes wide with shock. Ravi and Kelvin also stare at me.

I try to apologize, but I can't speak. My mouth flaps like a beached fish as I shake uncontrollably. I start rocking on the heels of my feet.

Ravi gets up from the table. "Ada, do you think we can talk in the corridor, privately?" he asks.

I stare at the ground, unsure of what to say.

"I think it will be best if we talk privately," Ravi says. "Go to the sitting room car. I'll meet you there."

I go to the compartment with the sitting room and take a seat on one of the overstuffed sofas. As I wait for Ravi, I rock slightly in my seat, fiddling with the hem of my dress. My hands are shaking, my stomach is churning, and my heart is pounding against my ribs. I feel sick knowing that I did something to get me in trouble. Just like every other incident that I had caused in my life.

Ravi enters the car a moment later, closing the door behind him. He doesn't join me on the sofa. Instead, he remains by the door. I brace myself for a possible lecture on how my behavior isn't appropriate. One that, in my experience, will end with me crying and him shouting some more.

"Has it always been like this?" he asks. I'm almost startled by his tone. It doesn't come out as a shout. He speaks softly and gently, like a worried teacher who is concerned for his student's welfare.

"What do you mean?"

"The shaking, the way you rock back and forth in place, and the adverse reaction to touch. Has it always been that way?"

I stare ahead, unwilling to face Ravi. "Yeah. I don't know why. I've always been this way."

"Even as a child?"

I suck in a deep breath and clench my eyes shut before nodding my head. "Especially as a child. It used to be really bad. It's like I couldn't control myself. I got into so much of trouble for it. I- I remember this one time, this girl in my kindergarten class gave me a hug. She didn't even ask me if I wanted one. She just came up from behind and grabbed me…"

I shudder at the memory. Although I have forgotten her name, I can still feel that iron-like grip she had on me. It was like she wrapped a pair of iron rings around my chest. No matter how much I struggled, she wouldn't let go. When I begged her to stop, she laughed and said, "But I like you!"

"So I kicked her," I finish.

Invoking that memory seems to have opened floodgates for more. The events that stemmed from that day, things that I was sure I have buried a long time ago, return in vivid detail.

I grabbed my hair and rocked back and forth. "The teacher was so mad at me," I choked out, "she suspended me for a day. After I came back, the kids at school wouldn't let me live it down. They always said something on the lines of, 'don't hug Ada or else she'll go berserk' all throughout elementary and middle school."

"Do you still want to kick someone every time they touch you?"

I shake my head. "It hasn't happened in years. Dad told me that I needed to control myself. It took a long time, but we managed to work it out. It became more manageable as I got older and could figure things out for myself. You know, what works and what doesn't. I just try to avoid being touched whenever I can. Like, instead of a handshake, I'll give a wave or something like that. Or if someone tries to touch me, I'll get away."

"What happens if you can't get away?"

I shrug my shoulders. Then I think back to yesterday. "I close my eyes."

"And do you do anything else?"

"Well... Dad always said that if I was close to a meltdown, I needed to close my eyes and think of something happy. He called it 'going to the happy place.' I don't really see it that way. I just block out what I see and hear. When it gets really stressful, I mentally place myself in a white, soundproofed room. It helps."

"You have a smart dad."

"Thanks." Something doesn't sit right with me. Why is this man, who I have only known for a day, so invested in learning about me? I know he is a mentor, but I thought his duties only extended to doling out advice and getting sponsors for his tributes. I glance over at Ravi. He's still standing at the door. "Why do you ask?"

"You're going to be meeting your stylist and prep team today, and unfortunately, they have a hands-on approach to their job."

"Dammit," I mumble. I can already imagine a flock of garishly dressed freaks surrounding me, poking me and prodding me with talons painted in gold and pink and orange. I wrap my arms tightly around my shoulders, trying to contain my shaking.

"Ada, listen to me," Ravi commands. "You don't have to get along with your prep team, but you do need to cooperate with them if you have any chance of making a good impression for the sponsors. I realize this could be a problem, but I need you to remain calm. Whatever happens, I need you to go to your happy place. Can you do that?"

I bite down on my lip, hard, and reluctantly nod my head. Before the train can even enter the mountain tunnel that connects the Capital to the rest of Panem, I am bracing myself for the world of sensory overload-induced hurt that is waiting on the other side.

* * *

"Could you please stop talking? It's getting too loud."

The prep team ignores my request and continues their work on me. While it hasn't been as bad as I imagined, being trapped in the tiny station at the Remake Center with these weirdos for company still really sucks. In just a few hours, I have been stripped naked, scrubbed down, and hosed off. They took my glasses and my house key necklace and I haven't seen either since arriving.

And don't get me started on the body waxing. Speaking from experience, being electrocuted is more pleasant than having all of your body hair torn off with strips of paper coated in hot wax.

I tried tuning out the prep team, as Ravi suggested. And it worked for a little while. But eventually, the prep team barged their way into my quiet place and never left. I managed to avoid a meltdown by putting myself in a new happy place and staying there until they catch up before moving on to the next one. It's not ideal, and I never want to have to do that again, but it helps. At least I didn't kick anybody. Yet.

"All done. See, that wasn't so bad," cooes Claudia, a woman with so many purple and pink gems studded in her face that hurts to even look at her, as she rubs me down with a greasy lotion that I desperately want to wash off of me.

"You aren't as bad as the girl Vitus and I had to deal with last year," pipes Junia, a young woman with the kind of hairstyle that is long and white with blue streaks on one side, and completely bald on the other, as she plucks my eyebrows. "I was so happy when we got transferred here. Remember her, sweetie? That District 12 girl?"

"I remember her," chimes Vitus, a man whose long, braided lavender hair and high-pitched voice could easily make him pass for a girl, pausing briefly to give Junia a kiss on the cheek before handing me a rob. I snatch it out of his pale, perfectly manicured hands. "She was so filthy with all that coal dust! It took forever to clean her up!"

"Not only that, but she had the biggest unibrow I had ever seen!" Junia continues. "She kept cussing us out every time we tried to get rid of all that hair. It was like trying to give a makeover to a bear! I didn't even think District 12 swore all that much. I hear that 2, 4, and 7 curse a lot. But not 12 for some reason."

I'm pretty sure it's bad manners to speak ill of the dead. It feels wrong to hear these people badmouth a girl who has been dead for nearly a year. A girl who, if I so remember, ended up on the wrong end of a Career's sword. When they are done, the three of them stand back to admire their handiwork. I wrap the robe around me, tightly, and feverishly wishing that this would all be over soon.

"Not bad," comments Claudia, tapping her chin with a glittery, purple nail. "It's a shame about the hair though. You would look so pretty with long hair, especially in a nice chestnut."

"I don't know. I like it myself," says Junia. "It makes her look like a pixie."

"Well remember, Drusilla's the one who has the final say," Vitus says. "For all we know, she'll want to do something radically new. Oh, almost forgot…" he reaches into the pocket of his smock and pulls out my glasses. I snatch them away from him and put them on. "I wouldn't get too attached to them though. She'll probably make you switch them out for contacts."

Before I can ask what these "contacts" are, the door swings open and the woman they call Drusilla strides in. I instantly recognize her from past Games. With her sharp facial features, shiny, iridescent green hair, and wide-set black eyes that are outlined with swirls of green and black paint resembling antenna, Drusilla closely resembles an insect than a human.

She motions for the prep team to leave, and once we are alone, studies me with those black eyes. I shiver, clinging tightly to the robe.

"Stand up," she commands in a gravelly tone. I was expecting her voice to be chirpy, like a cricket. Instead she talks like someone who has spent half her life smoking cigarettes and the other half screaming orders at her subordinates. "And take that robe off."

"She's just doing her job," I remind myself as I let the robe fall to my feet. "She's just doing her job. She's just doing her job." And then I cover myself with my arms as best as I can. Not that there's much to cover in the chest region. The girls at school have teased me for having the "tits of a ten-year-old boy". Meanwhile, Drusilla is circling me, prodding me with a needle-like fingernail that leaves cold spots on my skin.

I close my eyes and think of something else. I know I have seen Drusilla before. She's been a Hunger Games stylist for as long as I remember. She was probably working back when Dad was my age. But not as a District 5 stylist.

"Didn't she style the District 1 tributes?" I ask myself. Now that I think about it, yes, yes she did. So, how did Drusilla get demoted to styling the District 5 tributes? I've heard of this other stylist, Tigris, who was fired a few years back. Something about her being too surgically altered to be on television. But unlike Tigris, who actually resembled a human-tiger hybrid towards the end of her career, Drusilla still looks like a person. So, if it's not surgery, then what?

"Not good. Not good at all," Drusilla mutters under her breath, tapping her chin with her sharp, shiny black fingernail. "I was expecting someone taller. You have the right figure for a model, but not the height. My couture would look better on a tall model."

Um… sorry? I'm wondering if it's not too late to convince Kelvin to trade stylists. At least he's taller than me. That should make her happy.

"Whatever happened to your hair?" she asks, gesturing to my head. I reach up and nervously run a hand through the short, bristly strands.

"I… uh, I cut my own hair," I say in a hushed voice. In actuality, this wasn't the case. Six months ago, I managed to electrocute myself while rewiring this gorgeous enameled, electric lighter that I salvaged from a local junk shop that I wanted to give to Dad for his birthday. Needless to say, it didn't turn out well. Not only did I burn my fingers, it scorched off my eyebrows and fried my hair into a charred and smoking mess. Dad had to shave my head so that my hair would have a chance to grow back out again. My hair didn't even begin to grow back again until four months after the incident.

"Dreadful, absolutely dreadful!" exclaims Drusilla, "There's absolutely nothing I could do with this."

I bite down on my lip, resisting any urge to break down and cry in front of this wretched woman as she continues to survey me. Her words sting more than any electrical shock. Maybe that's why she got demoted. District 1 got fed up with her antics and replaced her with a likable stylist.

"You aren't completely hopeless," she concludes. "You won't be the best looking tribute at the Opening Ceremonies. But I think, given what I have, I could make this work."

* * *

Several hours later, I find myself standing with Kelvin, our stylists, and our prep teams in ground floor of the Remake Center. The vast, stable-like level is buzzing with activity as stylists ready their tributes for their grand entrance. My head is spinning as I take in my surroundings. This is more chaotic than District 5 on Reaping Day.

I rub my eyes, taking care not to smudge the bright pink lightning bolt painted on my face. Drusilla confiscated my glasses. She said they took away from her "artistic vision", or some rubbish like that. Instead, she gave me a pair of flimsy contact lenses that sting my eyes.

Kelvin and I are wearing matching costumes, something Drusilla and Kelvin's stylist, a long-time veteran for 5 named Fabricus, came up with. They're these tight, white jumpsuits made out of a rubbery material that clings to my skin. It's difficult to walk in them. Glowing, neon pink and orange wires run up the sleeves, the pant legs, and the high, upturned collars. To my utter embarrassment, there is a deep v-neck on my suit that exposes my torso. I glare at Kelvin. At least he is more covered up. And his suit has blue and green wires instead of pink.

Contrary to what she said earlier, Drusilla found something to do to my hair. She had the prep team dye my bangs hot pink and styled it into a faux hawk. Kelvin has a pompadour with electric blue highlights and with a blue lightning bolt painted on the right side of his face.

"Put your arms down," Drusilla demands. "They'll want you to smile and wave as your chariot passes by."

"At least you aren't District 12," Fabricus adds, nodding in the direction of the District 12 tributes, who are being loaded into their chariot. They're naked and covered in a thick layer of black coal dust. I avert my eyes, but notice that Kelvin is gawking at the girl, who is also making an effort to cover herself. That poor girl.

Drusilla and Fabricus help us into our chariot. I nearly trip over the white, rubber, high-heeled boots that makes me six inches taller. They continue fussing over us, straightening out our suits, adding the finishing touches to our hair and makeup, until they are satisfied with their work. They step back, leaving me alone with Kelvin.

"What do you think they were thinking?" Kelvin asks. He tugs on the collar of his suit. "This doesn't feel very 5-ish. This looks like something the District 3 kids would wear."

Traditionally, the chariot costumes represent the District industry of each tribute. Because Kelvin and I are from District 5, we have to wear something related to power and electricity. In past years, our tributes have been paraded in clothes resembling some high-fashion version of a solar panel, a wind turbine, or some horrendous remake of the power plant uniforms. It's… average compared to some of the other Districts. Personally, I always hoped that there would be a stylist who can make a costume that generates static electricity. Then tributes can shoot lightning bolts out of their hands during the parade. But that's just a pipe dream. I doubt Drusilla or Fabricus have the brains to create something that awesome.

Kelvin and I glance over at the District 3 tributes, who are chatting in their chariot. They have skintight jumpsuits like ours. But instead of neon wires, their shiny black suits are decorated with glowing, bright blue designs that mimic a circuit board pattern. While we look ridiculous, they look cool.

I shrug my shoulders. "Neon lights?" I suggest. I can't explain the make up or hairstyle choices though. Aesthetic value, maybe? Who knows. What I do know is that in a few minutes, my dad and Herman are going to see this and they are going to wonder what in the name of Jove happened to me.

Music blares from loudspeakers installed all over the vast stables. I reach up and cover my ears, only to lower them when I catch Drusilla glaring at me, shaking her head in disapproval. The giant doors swing open and the District 1 tributes roll out to uproarious applause.

The District 1 tributes are stunning, as usual. Even though they are wearing nothing more than some skimpy, bejeweled outfits and a ton of feathers, the District 1 duo smiles and wave giant, white feather fans at the crowd.

After them are District 2. Even though they are made up to resemble granite statues, a homage to their masonry industry, the addition of gold-plated armor, helmets topped with crimson feathers, and spears make them look menacing. They are here, and they are ready for battle.

The other chariots roll out before the horses on ours begin to trot for the door. I latch onto the rail in front of me, refusing to budge. The cheers of the crowds are even louder than in the stables.

"C'mon Ada, give them a wave," hollers Kelvin. He's waving his arms over his head at the spectators lining the streets. "They love us!"

"No, they love the District 4 tributes," I yell. And it's true. They're made up like a sea king and queen, wearing spiked crowns of gold, shimmery gowns that mimic the rippling ocean waters, and a lot of seashell jewelry. The girl is blowing kisses to the crowd, who are scrambling for more, while her partner flexes his bulging biceps. Obviously, their attire is meant to ride on the coat tails of Finnick Odair's Victory last year. The other tributes are mere peasants compared to them. District 4 will reign supreme again.

"We love you Kevin," shrieks a gaggle of girls hanging over the sides of the avenue.

"And I love you too, random Capitol girls," Kelvin hoots, not caring for a minute that they butchered his name. He whispers, "Seriously Ada. These guys might want to sponsor us."

I catch a glimpse of Kelvin and I as we are broadcast on the television screens set up in the stands. The neon wires on our costumes illuminate our faces, creating halos of blue and pink light that stand out in stark contrast to the night sky. The screens focus on our faces for a moment before moving on to District 6, who have just rolled out.

Then I look up to see tier upon tier of the garishly dressed Capitolites bordering the avenue. The whole city must have shown up to witness this live. Panic takes hold as I grip onto the chariot. The music, the colours, the all-encompassing chaos is becoming too much. The mountain range that borders the Capitol seems to hold all the sound in, amplifying it. I shut my eyes.

"Don't freak out. Don't freak out. If you freak out, you'll die," I whisper under my breath. "The whole country is watching. You can't make yourself a bigger ass than you already have."

I have to make a good impression for these sponsors. If I live to see another day in the Arena, I might need to rely on their generosity to continue surviving.

I raise my free hand and give them a shy wave. The crowd continues to go wild. If not for me, then for the other tributes as we pass by. Many are chanting the names of their favorite tributes. Several let out ear piercing shrieks of delight when I flash them a small smile. I think.

Finally, the chariots pull up to the City Circle, which is paved with white stones and a large red and gold mosaic of the Capitol seal: an eagle with its wings outstretched, clutching a bundle of arrows in its talons, and flanked by two laurel leaves. The presidential mansion is huge! It's even bigger than the apartments and power plants back home. The mansion curves around the Circle, acting as a sort of border that closes in on the tributes as we arrive. Torches set up around the perimeter of the illuminate the magnificent marble and glass facade of the building.

The music and the crowds cheers and applause quickly die down when President Snow approaches the balcony overhead. All eyes are on him when he gives the traditional welcoming speech. The cameras cut to reaction shots of the tributes as we watch. I noticed that between the two Districts with the light-up costumes, District 3 has the most screen time. Not that I mind.

They look so much cooler than us, and they are clearly energized by the crowd. Besides, no one wants to see someone who is on the verge of a panic attack. But as usual, the cameras are more focused on the Careers. Especially 1 and 4.

Finally, the Opening Ceremonies ends with one last lap around the circle before taking us to the Training Center.

As soon as the chariot comes to a halt, I jump off and bypass the prep team, who are crowding around us, ready to help. Only I don't want their help. I want to get out of here and go somewhere that is quiet and not bathed in bright colors. I stop in my tracks, almost tripping over my boots, when I realized that I have no idea where the stairs are. A couple of tributes snicker at me as I stand there, unsure of where to go.

"There you are! Don't you ever think about running off unless you tell us," snipes Prospero as he marches up to me in teetering, high heeled boots. "You can get lost in the Training Center!"

I mumble a quick apology before asking, "Where are the stairs?"

* * *

As it turns out, the Training Center, with its massive tower block that houses the tributes and their respective entourage and the vast network of underground floors where we're going to be training for the next three days, doesn't need stairs. They have a glassed-in elevator that offers a panoramic view of the Capitol.

Needless to say, I am feeling really stupid as the elevator skyrockets us to our designated fifth floor apartment.

To be fair though, I use the stairs almost all of the time. While my apartment building has an elevator, it's been broken for the last five years, stalled somewhere between the basement and the lobby. Mr. LaPorte says that he doesn't have the time, the expertise, or the funding to get it fixed.

Despite his blow up at me for wandering off, Prospero is in good spirits. He heaps praise on Kelvin, rambling on about how he impressed with his attitude during the chariot ride. With his smile, his waving, and his flirting with the Capitol girls, Kelvin surely has sponsors lined up.

As for me, Prospero just says, "Don't fear, Ada. We'll have that head of yours held up high, smiling, and giving the Capitol a wonderful show by the end of the week! You'll have a legion of sponsors once I'm through with you."

I think Prospero is delusional. This legion of sponsors he goes on about must have already found their tributes. Despite this, I give him points for being encouraging.

* * *

Prospero calls me for dinner just as I am ready to take apart the hair-drying panel in my new bathroom. Not out of malice. I wanted to see how such a device can dry out my hair with an electrical current without shocking me. The last time I was electrocuted, most of my hair got burned to a crisp!

The Capitol may be filled with all kinds of wrong, but their technology is nothing like I have ever seen before. Who would have guessed that there was a panel there ? No, wait! Who would have guessed that there was even a hundred kinds of shampoo? Or that if you wanted to dine in your room, you would just order what you want from a menu into a special microphone and it would appear in mere minutes.

If I had all the time in the world, I would just stay in that room and play with all these gadgets and see how they work.

Dinner is a noisy, chaotic affair. Lianna shows up with a sour mood on her face. Although Ravi doesn't explain why, I had a feeling it was because we didn't make as big of an impression during the Opening Ceremonies as she had hoped.

Men and women in crisp white uniforms wait on the sides, and offer glasses of wine throughout the evening. I've only tried wine once before, by accident. I was nine years old and attending a wedding for one of Dad's work friends when I accepted a glass of wine, thinking that is was fruit juice. Thankfully, I spat it out as soon as I realized that dry, tart liquid wasn't juice. But Dad was fuming that someone would give his underage daughter alcohol and we left before the newly married couple got a chance to cut the cake. The Capitol wine is even stronger than the sample I had. It makes my head spin and I decline any further offers. On the other hand, Kelvin is slurring his words and giggling at nothing by his third glass.

I find it difficult to eat with so many people around. I don't really like how these silent servers just stand and watch. When Kelvin asks why they don't talk, Prospero explains that they are avoxes, traitors to the Capitol who have had their tongues cut out and forced into lifelong servitude.

Suddenly, I lose my appetite. There's something unnerving about having an extension of the Capitol's power, their ability to force someone into a fate worse than death, constantly present. I can only manage a mouthful of the shellfish bisque, the pasta with the spicy meat sauce, and the lamb smothered in an herb rub before I start to feel nauseous. Even after two days in Capitol custody, I still can't get used to how rich their food is. The presence of the tongueless waiters doesn't help either.

Mealtimes are the one time we can reconvene and discuss Game strategies. But with Lianna's bad attitude, Kelvin's drunkenness, and me trying my best to keep it together, poor Ravi can't really do his job. His words fall on deaf or inattentive ears. By the time dessert, a richly decorated cake with pink and blue sparklers sticking out of the mound of fluffy white icing, arrives, he has given up for the night. He looks frustrated, grabbing his hair with one hand and drumming his fingers against the table top. He must be as eager for the night to be over as I am.

As everyone starts to vacate the dining room, I ask Ravi if we can talk privately. Ravi motions for the avoxes to leave.

"Thank you," I whisper, "for earlier."

For the first time since this morning, Ravi returns a smile. I think he's glad that there is someone who appreciates him.

* * *

**A/N: I would really like to thank everyone who reviewed. I really appreciate your support and feedback.**

**1) Lianna: Some people noticed that it was weird that there were people who were hoping that someone would be Reaped into a Games and killed off. And honestly, if you guys think Lianna is a b*tch now, let me tell you, she was even worse as a teenager. Somehow, being the only child two a couple of high-ranking District officials means she can get away with anything. To give you an idea of how bad Lianna was in school; she is the type of girl who would campaign for the most unpopular girl in school to become prom queen just so she can get the entire student body to humiliate her.**

**To someone such as Nadine and her friends, Lianna getting Reaped was like their "ding dong, the witch is dead" moment. Their fury at her winning is an extent of how much they despised her. They would have been okay with going another year without food it it meant that they wouldn't have to see Lianna again. After all, if the person you hate suddenly became a celebrity with unlimited funds,a nice house, and adoration that she doesn't deserve, wouldn't you get mad too?**

**2) Ravi: Without giving too much away because I may touch up on this subject in a later chapter, let's just say that Ravi understands Ada so well because he's seen this happen to someone close to him.**

**3) The chariot costumes: District 5's design is somewhat based on power, specifically neon lights but also, abstractly, rock star power. The white jumpsuits with the neon embellishments were taken from the stage costumes Elvis wore towards the end of his career. Ada's pink hair highlights came from the District 5 ad from that Cover Girl/Capitol make up campaign. And the pink and blue lightning bolt face paint was a homage to David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust. I was going for a whole glam rock meets Las Vegas gone campy. I actually drew out what the costumes would look like, but because won't let me post them here, I need to figure out another way to show you guys.**

**4) A reviewer pointed out/ probably wanted to know why Ada would be offended by the comment about her hair-length. I did rewrite that part to explain why, as well as harken back to an incident from her past. Though as a visual reference, to give you an idea of HOW short her hair is, google "Rosabell Laurenti Sellers". I wish would allow us to embed links, because her headshot is pretty much how I imagined her to look like.**


	3. Chapter 3

At a quarter to ten the following morning, Prospero drops Kelvin and I off at the basement gymnasium where the training sessions will be held. We aren't the first to arrive, as the Careers are already huddled together in a group while a few other tributes are either off to themselves or paired up with their District partners.

I take a seat on one of the benches pressed against the wall and wait for the training sessions to begin. At this time, Dad would be home after another night shift at the Snow Dam. It hurts to think about him, drinking coffee alone in that tiny kitchen. That last morning we shared together feels so far away. How is he? Is he trying to keep himself together, or has he started to fall apart like what happened after Mother died?

And then there is Herman.

I push the thought of Herman aside. It's too painful to think about him and his sad green eyes and his desperate pipe dream that I might come back. My last words to him, "I'll try", echoes in my head, and now I wish I had said something different. I feel like I am violating a huge part of our friendship by breaking my promise to him. I'm going to give up in the Arena. Maybe not by screaming, "I surrender" and waiting for a horde of other tributes to swoop down and finish me off. But I know the moment I end up on the wrong end of someone's weapon, I will have forfeited any chance of coming home alive. It kills me to know that the last thing I will ever do for my only friend is to hurt him.

I glance up at the clock in the training center. It's five minutes to ten. At this time, I should be sitting in my second-period physics class, sitting in the creaky desk in the far left corner of the room, right underneath the map of Panem pinned to the wall, and taking notes on Maxwell's equations while Herman is sitting beside me and doodling in his notebook. I should be back in 5, not here. The fact that I'm not at school feels like all kinds of wrong.

My hands reach up to my neck, but I can't find that house key necklace that should be looped around it. Then I remember that the keys are still in Capital custody. Dammit! What would it take to ask for them back? I know it feels weird, asking for something as trivial as a pair of house keys back, but they are all that I have left to remember home. I have always worn that necklace, and without it, I feel naked.

* * *

At ten o'clock, a tall woman dressed in a black uniform with the Capital seal embroidered on the front comes up and tells us to form a circle around her. Once we are in formation, she introduces herself as Atala, the head trainer.

Atala emphasizes a need to learn survival skills. "In two weeks, twenty three of you will be dead," she begins, "one of you will be alive. Who that is depends on how well you pay attention over the next three days, particularly to what I'm about to say."

Then she goes over the rules. Rule number 1: No fighting with the other tributes. If you feel the need to hone your fighting skills, or to let loose some pent up aggression, you can practice on one of the trainers. And that's kind of it. You're free to do whatever you want or go to any station as long as you don't beat up another tribute.

She finishes her spiel with some grim statistics: "Everybody wants to grab a sword, but most of you will die from natural causes. 10% from infection, 20% from dehydration. Exposure can kill as easily as a knife."

I silently calculate what those percentages translate to in the Arena. If my calculations are correct, that means two of us will die from some sort of infection and five from dehydration. Still, sixteen of us are going to die in a violent manner. I'm really not feeling good about this knowing that I still have a greater chance of having a spear skewered into my gut than getting gangrene.

The circle dispenses. Despite Atala's warning, most of the tributes head to the weapons racks, picking out bows or swords or spears, and starting their first lessons.

"Do you think we should team up?" asks Kelvin. Looking around, I notice that the kids in the poorer Districts are either alone or paired up with their partner. Actually, most of the Districts are working together. I can't recall Ravi and Lianna advocating that Kelvin and I team up. Either it slipped their minds or they realized that we would make for a terrible alliance.

"I would prefer to work alone," I whisper. Group assignments were always a disaster for me. Nothing ever gets done when you are working with four other kids with conflicting interests and ideas and no idea how to compromise. And more often than not, I was usually left doing most of the work. Kelvin catches my drift.

"Suit yourself," he says as he heads towards the sword station, which is swarming with tributes, "I've always wanted to learn how to use one of these!"

Instead of weapons, I decide to start off at the edible plants station. It consists of two large computer monitors that are placed back to back. The giant blue screen flickers to life the moment I lay a finger on the monitor. A screen comes up with a tutorial of how the station works. One link leads you to an encyclopedia of edible plants: their environment, what they look like, their nutritional value, etc. The other link sends you to a memory game featuring cards with images of the plants on them. The object of this game is to identify all the edible plants within a certain time frame. If you chose a deadly plant, then it's game over.

Of course, what better way to remind you of the consequences of making the wrong decision than for the screen to go black.

I start reading and then re-reading the entries. As soon as I feel ready, I start the memory game. There are no words, just pictures. I clear my mind and block out all surrounding distractions. My eyes are on the screen and my ears are deaf to the world. I let my fingers fly over the cards. Yellow squares pop up, then fade, with each selection. Quickly, I select as many plants as I can recognize until the sixty-second timer runs out.

The buzzer sounds, and the screen flashes my score and a congratulations for a job well done. I have managed to match up ninety-two plant pairs. I stand back from the screen, frowning. Is that a good score? Somehow, a "good job" message just doesn't sound good enough to me. I glance around the station for a trainer to ask when I notice the others.

Three tributes are standing right behind of me. I can see them reflected in the left lens of my glasses. A boy and two girls. They aren't Careers; they're too skinny. Their faces that lean, drawn look of someone who has never had a good meal in their life. The way they are flocked together reminds me of the vultures that would be seen circling above Zeus' Toilet, the poorest part of town, waiting for someone to drop dead so that they can swoop down and feast on the remains before the Peacekeepers chase them away. I tense up, gripping the edges of the monitor.

One of the girls lets out a low whistle. "Sweet jumpin' Jehoshaphat," she says in a heavy accent that makes her mispronounce her words.

"I've heard of these machines," says her companion, a shorter girl with the ashen skin and long, dark hair of District 3. "My uncle was part of the team that developed them for the Capital. If you score higher than 80, you better your odds of survival. It's, like, supposed to show the Gamemakers how smart you are."

I freeze up. It feels like the other three tributes are edging closer towards me, cornering me at this station. The constricting feeling returns and I shut my eyes, willing that these kids would just go away. Somewhere behind me, one of them pipes up with, "Hey, you want t-"

The loud, brassy drone of a gong drowns out the rest of the question, echoing throughout the gymnasium. It's lunchtime. I clamp my hands over my ears to buffer the sound and make a mad dash towards the dining hall.

* * *

I'm the first one to reach the dining hall. Once inside, I grab a plate from one of the carts and load it with whatever is available. Then I sit down at a small table that is pushed up against the farthest corner of the room with my back against the others.

It's far away enough that I can tune out whatever sound is going on. Unlike the dining hall at school, which is usually filled to the brim with four grade levels worth of students, the hall here isn't as loud. The only noise comes from the Careers table as they boast about their training feats or how they are going to break a record for most tributes killed in a single Hunger Games. Sickening, the whole lot of them.

"Hi!"

The voice comes so suddenly, like an alarm, that I jump out of my seat.

"Whoa! Sorry about that. I should have known you were the skittish type."

I tilt my head to the side to find myself staring face to face with the District 3 girl who was watching me at the plant station. She the kind of wide grin on her face that makes me want to grab my plate and eat my lunch in the gymnasium. To my horror, she is sitting just a couple of inches away from me. One wrong move, and I could be rubbing my elbow against hers! I let out a slight shudder.

"Can you please sit back?" I tensely whisper. "I-I'm kind of claustrophobic."

"Uh...sure, I guess," the girl says as she scoots her chair back so that there is at least a foot of space between us. It's not enough, but how do you tell someone to move three feet back? She sticks out her hand. "I'm Cordelia by the way."

I stare at the hand.

"You're supposed to shake it and then say who you are, silly," she replies, laughing. The more time I spend with her, the more I dislike her.

I give her a shy wave.

"Alright, good enough," Cordelia says with a shrug. "Not much of a talker, are you?"

I shake my head.

"Figures. Well, hey, if this isn't too much to ask, I was watching you at the plants station. And I was thinking, and I know this might sound sudden, and I know this is just the first day of training and all, but do you want to form an alliance with me? So far, it's just me and Wynonna. We can always use a few more people."

As rude as it may be, I shake my head. No, I don't want to join an alliance.

"You sure? I mean, we have a better chance against the Careers if there's more in the group. You know, strength in numbers and all that. I'm good at making traps, and I could do something to make it deadlier, like electrify it. That's what my mentor did that during his Games, so it's doable. Wynonna's killed livestock, and you know edible plants. We'll be invincible!"

I shake my head again. No means no.

"Positive?"

How many times do I have to repeat myself? No, I am not joining an alliance! I don't even want to join one! What good will it be when the numbers dwindle down to the single digits? What happens when there are six of us left and we all turn against each other? I've seen Hunger Games where this happened. Alliances have fallen apart due to mistrust among their ranks, and they usually end with a bunch of dead kids. Well, I'm not going to put myself in that situation.

"No!" I snap. My voice comes out in a harsh tone. "And I mean it!"

"Suit yourself," she says, sighing. As she walks away, I notice she does it with her head down low. Did she want me in her alliance that badly? I look down at my plate with its half-eaten sandwich and untouched grapes and potato crisps. Maybe the way I told her off was rude, but at the same time, I stand by my decision. Alliances can only mean trouble. And Cordelia was being pushy.

Besides, I never did well in group settings.

* * *

As soon as Kelvin and I sit down for dinner, Prospero asks us how training went. Kelvin seems a little shaken and upset as he reaches for a bottle of some fizzy orange drink.

"I suck at sword fighting," he moans before chugging down the bottle dry and moving on to the next one. "That District 2 girl was laughing at me when the trainer knocked me down."

"Did you try the other stations?" Ravi asks as he starts serving himself salad. "You can't just learn how to use weapons, Kelvin. I think Atala would have mentioned it by now."

"She did," Kelvin admits, "but… look, I'll try the other stations tomorrow. I just wanted to learn how to use a sword. I've never done it before, and it's one of those things that I just couldn't pass up."

Ravi lets out a sigh as Kelvin downs another bottle of orange soda. Looking around, I notice that the avoxes are just waiting at the sides. Ever since we sat down for dinner, not one of them has offered any alcohol. Considering what happened last night, I am wondering if Ravi put a stop to it.

While Ravi is reprimanding Kelvin for not trying any of the survival stations, Lianna turns to me and asks, "What about you? You learn anything today?"

"Edible plants," I mumble.

"Speak up. I can't get you a sponsor if I can't hear you."

Louder this time, I repeat myself. Lianna looks happy as she sits back in her chair. "I remember those stations. What score did you get on that matching game they have you do?"

"Ninety-two pairs."

Lianna breaks out into a grin. "Finally, I have a tribute that isn't completely hopeless!

Ravi and Prospero glance over at each other, and I swear I can hear Prospero say, "Did she really just say that?"

I don't like Lianna at all, but I really don't have much choice. She's the only living female Victor in District 5, and that entitles her to be my mentor. I glance over at Ravi, who is drilling Kelvin on survival tactics. Kelvin is getting increasingly frustrated the more he is questioned. But at least Ravi treats Kelvin well.

"So, what else happened?" asks Lianna.

"Built a fire at another station," I whisper, keeping my head down. "It wasn't too hard. It's like lock-picking. You need a lot of patience and the right tools."

Lianna continues to smile. I don't think I like it when she smiles. She always did that whenever she killed someone. The cameras during her Games always made a point to do a close up on her whenever she killed. I know Lianna won't hurt me, but she still freaks me out. "Have you thought about joining an alliance?"

I shake my head. "Don't want to. I never worked well in groups. The District 3 girl asked, but I declined."

"What? Are you kidding me?" screeches Lianna. I shrink down into my seat. Her shrill voice echoes throughout the apartment, and I think everyone on the floors above and below us can hear what's going on. "How do you expect to fend for yourself in the Arena? You can't do it alone, you know! Careers are more likely to target lone tributes than the ones in packs. They don't even go after the alliances until all the loners are gone!"

Lianna's screaming leaves me shaking. I try to clamp my hands but she snaps, "Don't you even think about covering your ears! I'm trying to save your life, and I can't do that if you aren't going to listen! You wanna die? Be my guest. I'd suggest running to the Cor-"

"That's enough, Lianna," Ravi says sternly, glaring at her. "Just calm down!"

Lianna stomps off to her room. As soon as she is gone, Ravi turns to me and asks, "Are you alright?"

I break down. For a long time, all I can do is cry and rock back and forth. Just the thought of that psychotic Career pack from my nightmares becoming a reality has me breaking down into more tears.

"Ada," Ravi says in that same calm voice, "I know you don't like people touching you. But do you need help going back to your room?"

I shake my head, still crying.

"Do you think you can get up?"

I do just that. I almost trip, but I make it back to my room. When I get there, I collapse onto the bed and start crying. The door closes shut. Ravi disappears into the bathroom before returning with a damp wash cloth. He pulls up a chair next to the bed and hands me the wash cloth.

"I apologize for Lianna's tantrum," says Ravi in a voice that says he means it. "I don't know what exactly got into her today. She's been in this mood all day and… look, what she said is inexcusable. You explained why you didn't want to join an alliance, so Lianna should not have blown up at you for that. She may have been in an alliance during her Games, but that doesn't mean she should make her tributes do what she did."

I don't say anything. I just wipe my eyes with the cold cloth. When I think I have it together, I ask him, "Is Lianna right? Will the Careers hunt me because I'll be alone?"

"Truthfully, it depends. Career packs normally just chase after whoever they find first. It doesn't matter to them if it's an alliance or a lone tribute. Careers won't make a hit list because everyone is going to die sooner or later."

I bury my head in my hands. "So I'm dead either way?"

"It's just a matter of how long you want to prolong the inevitable. You can stave off the inevitable by-"

"What's the point?" I interrupt. "I'll be dead in days! I have a greater chance of getting killed by another tribute than anything else."

"Ada," sighs Ravi. He repeats my name under his breath several more times before continuing. "If you keep up that attitude, you're going to get killed in the Bloodbath. Now if you can just-"

"But-" I protest. Ravi holds his hand up to shush me. I bite my lip.

"Listen to me, Ada Linus. I'm here to help you. If you can just hear me out, you won't end up as a Bloodbath casualty."

I stare at him expecting him to go into a long spiel on how I can survive if I take my training seriously.

But what he says next surprises me.

"You won't die on the first day if you can get away from the Cornucopia as quickly as possible. That's the first bit of advice I can give you. I ran away on my first day, and I think that's what saved my life."

"And then you hid," I add, thinking back to how Ravi won his Games.

"For the most part, yes," he confirms. "But until then, you need to learn how to survive on your own. You need to learn as many survival skills as you can, plus a weapon. Based on your size, I don't recommend using a sword or a mace. You're better off with a throwing knife or a slingshot, which I might add, have killed people and are, thus, effective weapons. However, I don't want you to spend a day learning how to use a weapon. I need you to learn how to hunt, fish, build a shelter and a fire, find water, and tie a knot. If you have time, I would also recommend camouflage. Careers aren't the brightest and they always expect to see what they want you to see. If you can learn all these skills, it will greatly increase your chances of survival. The Arena can be as dangerous as a tribute, so you need to know how to face it head on and adapt."

Ravi continues on and on about what I need to do, but his voice fades to a light drone. It's low enough that I can tune him out as I pick at my nails. A day and a half of training just doesn't feel like enough. I need more time if I'm to learn everything he wants me to know. I have never worked well with a time crunch, and I always hated it when my teachers would schedule a test for the next day without giving the class at least a three-day warning. There is too much I have to learn, and I'm starting to doubt I can do well in the Arena.

Then I realize that he has stopped talking. I look up to find him facing me.

His eyes scan the length of my arms and the raised, interconnecting network of burn scars that resemble glowing red, white, and pink wires against my golden beige skin. The scars are from mishaps that stemmed from every experiment I ever conducted. Working with electricity, you would expect to get shocked or burned or electrocuted every once in a while. Although it hurt to receive them, the scars stand for something I learned: how an alternating current works, how to rebuild and repair a toaster, a radio, and a hairdryer, how to make an electric lighter, how to rewire an electrical circuit, how to make a multitude of toys from just a few scraps of wire, metal, and other odds and ends. Even though I should be used to people staring at the scars, I fold my arms and bury my hands in my lap.

"How did you get those scars?" asks Ravi.

"I, uh, invent things," I explain in a hushed whisper. "Rebuild things, make new toys to play with, figure out how things works, or trying something because I read about it and see if I can do it."

"That's quite an interesting hobby. And what motivates you to try these things?"

I shrug my shoulders. "To see if I can do it, I guess." Truthfully, I never really gave much thought on why I do it. I just like making things, seeing how they function, and just trying out what I learned.

"Do you think you can apply that mindset to your training? For example, maybe you can tell yourself, 'when I learn how to fish, I want to try it for myself because I have never done it before.' Something like that."

It takes me a moment to contemplate that answer before nodding my head. I guess I can.

"Good," says Ravi, smiling. And I smile back. At least I can say that I am happy now because it feels like things might actually be alright. Maybe not in the Arena, but I know how I can get through training and that it's alright to be alone, even if Lianna doesn't agree with me.

"This brings me to something I want to ask," he adds. "Officially, Lianna is your mentor. However, it's not going to work between you two. How would you feel if I helped you until the Games start? I still have to mentor Kelvin, so I will have to train the both of you. This means you can't hide and we won't have as much time to go over what you learned in training as you would if it was just me. Would you be okay with this?"

I vigorously nod my head. Yes! Yes, I want Ravi as my mentor. I don't care if I have to share with Kelvin. I would rather get help from him than to be screamed at by Lianna.

"Okay then. Do you want to take your dinner here? There's this microphone installed in the bedrooms where you can order room service."

"Yes, please." After what happened, I don't think I can go back out into the dining room. It's too noisy and I don't want to risk the chance of running into Lianna again.

"Alright. Now you just take it easy for tonight and don't let Lianna get to you. It's going to be a busy two days, and I want you to learn all that you can before the Games start."

Before leaving, Ravi stops at the door and gestures to my head. I reach up and feel my fingers brush up against my short hair. That horrid pink fringe is still there. I haven't had the time to cut them out yet. "I'll talk to Drusilla about dyeing your hair back to brown," he says. "The florescent pink will be a liability. Anyone can spot it from half a mile away."

"And if she refuses?"

"We might have to cut it before you leave."

I sit up on the bed and shrug my shoulders. Eh, I'm used to bad haircuts.

* * *

**A/N:I would really like to thank Igenlode Wordsmith, Liam, Saltey, my followers, and any lurkers here. You guys are great. I also want to thank Writers Anonymous for all their help. I really appreciate all of your help and support.**


	4. Chapter 4

The next two days fall into a pattern: wake up, have breakfast, go down to the basement and train at any of the stations there until lunch, after which I'll train some more before being excused to go back to the apartment and calling it a night.

As Ravi suggests, I try my hand at camouflage, but instead of making something that could blend into the foliage of the ersatz forest set up at the station, it looks like someone vomited up green and brown paint. I won't lie; my art skills are pretty bad. I can't paint a stick figure to save my life! I also try making shelter, knot tying, and and fishing with the results ranging between good to average. In the case of knife throwing, it's downright terrible.

After the incident with Cordelia, no one approaches me with offers to join their alliance. Not that I care. By lunch on the second day, I notice that Kelvin has already joined one with the boys from District 6 and 9. I don't know how good they are. I haven't really noticed what the other tributes are doing. Ravi suggested that I pay attention to my own training and not focus on what the others are doing. I think he's afraid I'll suffer some kind of anxiety attack if I see someone who can decapitate a training dummy with a sickle.

On the second night, Ravi and Lianna drill Kelvin and me with questions about what we learned, how well we learned it, and what we need to do to improve for next time. The time between dinner and bed is spent with them quizzing us with survival tactics until it feels like my brain is ready to burst. I've had study marathons before, but Ravi and Lianna are more intense than any teacher I have ever had.

* * *

On the third morning of training, Prospero reminds us that we will have to demonstrate our skills to the Gamemakers in a private session after lunch. My stomach starts to churn at the thought that too many people are going to be watching me muck around in the gymnasium, trying to think of something I can do to impress them.

Prospero will not stop making the point of how we have to make a good impression. "All the sponsors will be looking at your scores. Of course, I don't expect you to get a ten. That's very difficult to get. But anything above a seven will help you get sponsors. They love to support a winner!"

I start to feel nauseous when he mentions that. I would be lucky if I got a six! It's a shame that the training score broadcasts never tell us what the tribute did to get that score. I could use a few ideas of what I can do to impress the Gamemakers.

Before Kelvin and I go down to the training floor, Ravi pulls me aside. "I know this is going to be hard for you, but when the time comes, you need to pretend that the Gamemakers aren't there. If you get too overwhelmed, just calm down and close your eyes. Do you think you can do that?"

I nod my head. "Alright," he says, "good luck."

I spend the morning reviewing what I learned and brainstorming ideas of what I can show the Gamemakers. But I come up with nothing. Glancing around the room, I notice that a lot of the tributes are squeezing in one last session at one of the weapons stations or practicing some last-minute combat with one of the trainers. Other than the Careers, who are joking around and boasting about what they're going to do, everyone else is silent, and I wonder if they are as nervous as I am.

I shift my attention back to reviewing edible insects. That infernal buzzing sound in my head won't pipe down! I try taking a deep breath and focusing on the matching game programmed into the station, but my hands are shaking so much, I hit mismatched pair after mismatched pair. An array of red and yellow squares light up and fade away before the screen goes black before flashing my score.

Thirty-eight. I matched up thirty-eight pairs in sixty seconds. My heart plummets to my stomach while my head keeps replaying a single message over and over and over again. "You are screwed."

* * *

The private sessions take place immediately after lunch.

We are given strict instructions to remain in the dining hall while the sessions are going on. Once we are done demonstrating whatever it is we will do, we are free to go. My session can't seem to come quickly enough. There's no clock in the hall, so it might as well be a week before my turn is up. I sit as far away from everybody else as the room will allow. Thankfully, the room is quiet. No one seems to want to talk. All anyone can do is wait until our name is called up.

When Kelvin is called in, he turns to my direction and gives me a quick gesture of his head. "Wish me luck," he says. I mumble something in reply, but I don't think he can catch it when the door closes behind him.

Then finally they call me up. I take a deep breath and keep my head bowed down as I leave the room. I don't make a point of looking up at the Gamemakers, who are assembled on a second-floor loft that overlooks the gymnasium. There's a low murmuring sound coming from above. I don't know what they expect from me, but after seeing six Careers demonstrate their skills, I am pretty sure they've seen enough for today.

I head to the shelter station. No one seems to have touched it. The fake trees and its carpet of dead leaves and twigs are just the same as when I had practiced there yesterday. The debris crunches underfoot as I settle down in the little clearing. Without as much as a glance up at the Gamemakers, I start by retrieving the long wooden stakes scattered on the ground.

My hands seem to work almost mechanically as I assemble the shelter. Build the main frame of the shelter by propping the longest pole against the tree stump that will serve as the anchor, then secure the frame by binding the two smaller stakes around the pole to form a tripod. Prop more sticks up against the sides of the pole to serve as a wall. Then insulate the structure against the wind, rain, and cold by piling leaves, sticks and other forest debris until it forms a cover that is several inches thick. The end result is a little shabby and would not last a rainstorm, but it's not bad for my second try. Or, at least I don't think so.

Then I turn to phase two of my plan. I make a ring of rocks at the mouth of the shelter and then, using some of the leftover branches from the shelter, assemble a little tinder nest in the crude crucible. Because it took a long time to build the shelter, there isn't much time to try the bow drill method I learned. But there is something the trainer said I could use in the Arena. Taking off my glasses, I angle the thick lens against a particularly bright overhead lamp until a light beam shines on the nest.

After a few minutes, I realize that something is wrong. Despite doing what the instructor said, my improvised fire starter isn't working! I have the beam, but it doesn't seem to be doing anything. Wisps of faint white smoke drift from the pile, but there's no fire. I try angling the lens, but I am met with the same result.

"No," I gasp. "No, no, no!" What am I doing wrong? I can see the smoke, but no fire! My heart is thundering in my chest while my legs grow numb. A loud cough shakes my focus.

And then I make the mistake of looking up.

Dozens upon dozens of men and women in purple robes are staring back at me. Without my glasses, they're just a smattering of purple blobs with flesh-colored orbs floating above them. But I know they are there and they are staring at me. They're probably thinking that I am a failure. And I think I am too.

Tears run down my face as my hands hover over the tinder, trying in vain to get this stupid fire started. But no matter how much I tilt my blasted glasses, that tinder pile is just that. A pile of rubbish that I can't turn into something useful. Panic surges through me as I drop my glasses and reach out for anything I can use as an improved fire starter. Maybe there's some time left! If only I can get my hands on something. Sticks, rocks, anything I can use to cause some friction that would set that pile alight!

"Time's up, Miss Linus," drones one of the Gamemakers. I drop whatever debris I am holding. "You may go now."

No! I shake my head and reach for some rocks, striking them against each other in some last-ditch attempt to create sparks.

"Did you hear me, Miss Linus?" that same voice rings out. It echoes throughout the vast, almost empty room. "Your time is up. You are free to go."

"Go?"

My question comes out in a weak, pathetic hush. My face is growing hot and wet as tears run down my face.

"If you do not vacate the station within sixty seconds, we will have a trainer escort you out."

I drop the rocks, which clatter to the ground. I reach for my glasses and put them on. The lenses fog up, then fade away to a clear view of the training center. I can't bear to look at the Gamemakers, what they must be thinking. I can already imagine the whole lot of them frowning down at me.

I walk to the elevators with my head bowed down. It's not until I reach the fifth floor apartment that I realize what I did wrong. I had to blow on the tinder pile when the smoke started! That way, it will ignite faster. That mistake was so avoidable! I smack myself on the head, repeatedly and as hard as I can, and don't stop until the elevator doors slide open.

When Prospero asks where I got the bruises on my head from, I mumble something about hitting my head during my session before taking off for my room.

* * *

There's nothing left to do after the private sessions. I waste the rest of the afternoon by sitting alone in the bathroom, looking for ways to distract myself. I try taking apart that shower panel, the hair drying pad, the automated bath rug to finally see how they work. But each time I try, my focus is interrupted by a train of thought that broadcasts all of my innermost doubts.

Thanks to one little, avoidable error, my whole thought process goes haywire without a means to shut it off. I shut my eyes and project myself back into my happy place. But when I arrive, I see that someone has already been here. Horrible messages are scribbled across the white walls in dripping, red paint: You screwed up Ada. You really messed things up this time. Why didn't you blow on that tinder pile, Ada? What were you thinking? You've really done it now. Now everyone will know what a failure you are. You're going to die.

I break down, crying, when I open my eyes again and find myself curled up in the shower. I can just see it now. A big zero flashing across television screens across Panem, along with my picture, when they read off the training scores. For someone who has spent her entire school career earning straight A's, there is nothing more horrifying than receiving a failing mark.

What's worse is that the discouraging messages, that vision of my training score of zero, remain long after I've vacated the happy place. They stick around like a lead weight implanted in the back of my head, weighing me down, making sure that I know it's still there.

Finally, after several hours, I can't take it anymore. I go searching for Ravi. Even though the apartment is huge, it's not difficult to track him down. I find Ravi chatting with Lianna in the living room. Kelvin is nowhere to be seen.

"Ravi, can we talk alone?" I ask, sounding as pathetic as I feel. Ravi nods his head and we to back to my room. When he closes the door, I break down. He doesn't need to ask what's wrong. I blurt out everything that happened today. He sits and listens as I recount that botched session and how I shouldn't have messed up when I did. By the time I'm done, I feel completely and utterly spent, but probably better for the first time today. It's like a burden has been lifted, even if that lead weight in my head is still there.

"So, how screwed am I?"

Ravi gives me this funny look on this face. "Are you telling me that you're worried about your score, before you've even seen it?"

"Uh… yeah," I admit, bowing my head down so I wouldn't have to face him.

"Ada," Ravi mutters under his breath, repeating my name several times over until breaking the pattern with, "what makes you think you even got a zero?"

"Because I messed up."

"It doesn't sound like it to me. You said you built a shelter, yes?"

I nod my head.

"Ada, you don't have to look up," Ravi says in the calm voice, "but I need you to listen to me. You aren't going to get a zero. And let me tell you why. I've been a mentor for thirty-five years. In all that time, I have never seen a tribute earn a training score of zero. It's impossible to get one! You would have to try to earn a zero. And from what I've heard from you, it doesn't sound like you failed. With the time constraint you had, you did a good job."

"It won't be good for the sponsors. Prospero won't get off my butt about how I have to impress them."

"Then don't listen to Prospero. He's only here supervise you and Kelvin and teach you about the Capital. He's not even allowed to get or sign up sponsors! Only Lianna and I can do that. And if you are still worried about Lianna, I don't want you to worry about her either. I'll make sure she does her job."

I must have been looking upset because Ravi adds, "If it makes you feel better, when I was a tribute, I didn't get any help in the Arena. My mentor was also my escort, this Capitol dandy who couldn't give me any decent advice to save his life. But despite the lack of sponsors, and my bad training score, I managed to survive. I'm still here."

"I know. My dad mentioned you when he said goodbye. He says that smart people have won the Games before, and used you as an example."

Ravi smiles at the mention of his name. Somewhere, Prospero is chiming something about dinner being served. Before we head to the dining room, he says one more thing. "On second thought, all that stuff Prospero said about the scores, ignore it. Ignore him. And ignore everything he has to say that doesn't involve Capitol etiquette. I don't know what got into that man's head regarding the scores. But earning a ten doesn't guarantee that you will win. That whole 'the higher the score, the better chance you will live' is just a superstition that mentors and the escorts encourage so that their tributes will do better."

"Why do they do it?"

"Couple reasons. One is to encourage the kids to do better in training so that they have a better at surviving the first day. No one likes it when their charge dies in the Bloodbath. The other is for bragging rights. Believe me, the other mentors love to brag about their tributes."

"So do I have a chance of surviving the first day?

"If you follow the directions I gave you the other night. Do you remember?"

I nod my head. Yeah, I remember. "Just run away from the Cornucopia, put as much distance between me and everyone else, and hide."

"That is correct."

I thank him, but I still feel sick knowing what is to come. I know Ravi means well, but most of the Hunger Games I remember watching always had a Victor who scored a seven or better in training. The ones who scored a five or less were dead by the end of the first week.

* * *

After dinner, everyone goes to the living room to watch as the training scores are broadcast on television. Or almost everyone. I stand by the doorway, ready to make a run for my room at the first opportunity I get. The living room is too crowded. In addition to Kelvin, Lianna, Ravi, and Prospero, we are joined by Drusilla and Fabricus. I think Drusilla is furious at me because she kept flashing dirty looks at me during dinner. Something tells me Ravi finally got a word in to her about the pink hair highlights, and she's decided to take it out on me because I'm "ruining her artistic vision."

To no one's surprise, the Careers all get scores ranging between eight and ten. Cordelia from District 3 pulls in a four and her partner, a runty-looking boy of twelve, receives a two. At least if I get a low score, I won't be the only one.

When Kelvin sees the seven flashing below his picture on the screen, he lets out a loud holler. "Oh yeah!" he yells, pumping his fists into the air. Everyone stares at Kelvin and I am pretty sure I just felt my jaw drop to the ground. What in the name of Jove did Kelvin even do to earn that seven? Have I been underestimating him all this time? I know he plays sports, but it never occurred to me that he would use his talents there to wow the Gamemakers. What did he do anyway? Club a training dummy with a baseball bat?

I grip the doorpost, bracing myself for the worst. There's my picture on the screen, then a three. A three! My head starts spinning. It's not the zero I was expecting, and it's better than what the District 3 boy got. But still! A three is no good! That's what, below average?

Ravi must have seen me by the door because the next thing I know, he's standing by my side, trying to calm me down, but I can't register a word he says.

I can see Prospero sitting on the sofa, shaking his head. Once again, I have failed him. It's becoming clear to him that I won't be wowing a legion of Capitolites. Now I'll just be another tribute who will die and then be forgotten by next year.

But then I remember what Ravi said, and push that thought aside. I have to ignore Prospero. I have to disregard everything he has to say because he is just a worthless dandy who wouldn't even last five minutes in the Games. Nothing he has to say will help me in the Arena.

"It's not the end," Lianna says from her spot on the sofa. "There's still one last chance to impress them."

I know full well what she means. The televised interviews that are coming up in two days. This is our last chance to make an impression on the public who may want to support us.

To say that I am not looking forward to the interviews would be an understatement.

Prospero claps his hands loudly and I recoil as the stinging sound of his clap pierces my brain. "Don't you worry, we'll have you ready by then," he says, "But I want you both in bed by ten. Tomorrow is going to be another busy day!"

* * *

**A/N: I would like to thank Saltey, Igenlode Wordsmith, and all my followers for the reviews and support. You guys are great! I would also like to thank Asj Johnson of Writers Anonymous for helping me with the summary. If you are reading this, know that you are awesome too.**


	5. Chapter 5

Coming up with an interview angle is surprisingly easy.

"Quiet," Ravi says, softly clapping his hands together.

It's the following afternoon and he, Lianna, and I are in the living room. Somewhere in the apartment, Prospero is teaching Kelvin how to conduct himself for the Interviews. It's been ten minutes since they left for their private session, and we can already hear Prospero shouting, "No! You can't sit like that. It's uncouth!".

I smile as I trace the raw red skin on the palms of my hands. Prospero started off our session by making me practice wearing high heels. It ended as well as it could be for someone who has never worn high heels before. I kept tripping and crashing onto the scratchy carpet in my quarters. My legs look just as bad as my hands and the parts that made contact with the floor burn. Hearing the commotion from down the hall, I feel a little better knowing that Kelvin isn't as perfect and "sponsor-worthy" as our escort has made him to be so far.

"Quiet?" I repeat, feeling skeptical about Ravi's proposition. It doesn't sound like I'll be doing much during the Interviews. More likely, I'll be up on stage, saying nothing, doing nothing, and looking incredibly stupid in whatever monstrosity Drusilla comes up with. If this is my last chance to make an impression, it won't be a good one. No one likes a girl who can't speak up.

"Think of it this way, you won't have to say anything if you don't want to. Caesar will just do all the talking. All you have to do is respond with some kind of gesture," says Ravi.

"What if he makes fun of me?" I ask.

"He won't," interjects Lianna, who is lounging on one of the little sofas, with a glass of fizzy pink juice in her hand. "Caesar might be a lot of things, but he isn't cruel. He would never do that to a tribute."

"Trust us," Ravi says before drilling me on interview questions. By lunchtime, my head is spinning from Ravi and Lianna's questions. How are you liking the Capitol? What do you think of Kelvin? Are you nervous? What's your strategy in the Arena? Got any family supporting you back home? There are too many questions that I have to answer with a full sentence. And you can only nod your head so many times before you start to feel dizzy.

Every so often, either Ravi or Lianna interrupts the mock interview with suggestions. Smile more. Try blushing. Give a little giggle. Do something, anything to endear yourself to the crowd. Sound happy because I apparently speak in a "monotone." Then they tell me I am doing everything wrong.

"That smile is too unnatural," says Ravi. "Why don't you think of something happy."

Happy? What's there to be happy about?

I must have looked at Ravi funny because he then suggests, "Maybe think of something from your past? A good memory, perhaps?"

The only thing that comes to mind was when I built my first radio.

* * *

I was twelve years old, and had spent most of the summer trying to figure out the logistics of building a solar-powered radio out of an empty breath mints tin and some electrical components. Herman and I had talked about whether or not it was possible to make a radio that not only ran on solar energy, but was small enough to hide in a coat pocket so that we could smuggle it to school and listen to it during lunch.

Never one to pass up a challenge such as this, I decided to give it a shot. But after weeks of studying electrical handbooks and scouring trash heaps and junkyards for scrap wire, transmitters, and a solar panel salvaged from a garden light, I was going nowhere. All I had was a mint tin with some wires hooked up to a solar panel and a functioning circuit board that wouldn't pick up a signal.

At this point, anyone else would have just scrapped the whole project and call it a day. But I couldn't. It wasn't just because I believed that I would find a solution. I was doing this project for Herman.

His grandfather, his only other friend, had passed away during the first week of July. Heatstroke brought on by the worst heatwave District 5 had seen in nearly fifty years. Or so the doctor who performed the postmortem exam said.

Although his family had tried reassuring him that his grandfather was old and it was his time to go, it didn't stop Herman from slipping into a stasis mode. He just seemed to shut down. All he would do was stare off into space. And it pained me to see him like this because it was as if my best friend, who loved jokes and magic tricks and was convinced that he was a changeling because he was the only redhead in a dark-haired family, had his soul sucked out.

I didn't know what I could do for him but to try and be there for him. He wouldn't leave his room, so we would spend the afternoon together. I would tell him about what projects I was thinking of doing or was working on or I read aloud from the books I brought over in the hopes that science would save the day and bring him back. But all he could do was stare off into space.

When I wasn't with him, I was working on the radio.

I don't fully know what possessed me to finish that blasted thing. In my twelve-year-old mind, I thought that if I finished it, I would show it to Herman and that would rekindle some spark of his old self that had been hidden away. Maybe it could show him that there was someone left in his life who cared about him and wanted him back. I don't know. Like I said, I was twelve, and I wasn't the most rational person to deal with at that age.

One day, in late August, I brought over the solar radio to show him how it was coming along. At this point, I was getting desperate. Herman was still stuck in his stasis mode, and my radio was nothing more than a dud.

"It's done, but I can't get it to work," I explained, waving the tin in front of him. "I made sure that all the parts worked before assembling them. But when I flip the toggle switch, I can't get any reception."

That was when Herman spoke up for the first time in weeks. "Did you try the speakers?" he asked in a hushed, low voice that cracked like a staticky earpiece.

I had soldered the switch to a speaker so that I could choose between using the speakers or listening on the headphones. As it turned out, the speakers weren't picking up any sound! So I scrapped them in favor of the external headphones.

I will never forget the day we got the solar radio to work. Herman and I were sitting on his bed, sharing a pair of earbuds between us while I twisted the dial in search of a radio signal. After several tense minutes of crackling static, we got something. Not music. It was a broadcast of an event. I think it was a rodeo because the announcer talked about the riders parading the track on horseback and an upcoming cattle lassoing competition, an event that District 5 has never hosted, making me believe that the signals were coming from District 10. But we could get a signal, and that's all that really mattered in the end.

Thinking back on that day, it wasn't the fact that we got the radio working that made me so happy.

It was seeing Herman smile as he leaned back against the wall with his eyes closed. Maybe it wasn't much at the time, but after weeks of only having his shell for company, that smile meant more to me than a hundred successful inventions.

* * *

"No, no, no!" I open my eyes and instead of Herman, I see Lianna shaking her head furiously. "You're going to scare off the Capital with that smile. Hell, you'll probably scare off the other tributes."

Lianna's yelling leaves me shaking in my seat, but she just continues on her rant. "Can't you do anything without looking like a creep?" The way she says it feels like she has just kicked me in the chest. No, not just my chest. She kicked me in the head as well. Memories I thought I had locked up in a mental vault years ago come flooding back. When I close my eyes and return to my quiet room, the graffiti is replaced with video feed of kids at school saying that I'm a creep, a weirdo. I don't belong in school and someone ought to lock me up in a place where only the freaks go.

"Just make it stop!" I scream. I start rocking back and forth, rapping my skull with my knuckles in the vain attempt to cut off the video feed. Even after the screens go black and I return to the real world, the audio track replays itself in my head. Weirdo. Creep. Freak. Can't do anything right.

Even though Ravi tries to calm me down, I can't bring myself to smile again for the rest of the session. How can you after something like this happens?

By the end of the day, I am wishing that I was already in the Arena. I think facing off against twenty-three strangers with weapons is preferable to millions who don't even know my name. In spite of everything that happened today, I don't feel ready. I'm not ready for the flashing cameras or the cacophony of noise that will surely greet me the moment I set foot upon that stage or the screams if I smile.

That night, my nightmares are filled with bright flashing lights and screams that pierce my brain. Noise builds up in my head like gas in a canister that has been kicked around too many times. When the pressure finally gets to be too much, my head explodes in a cloud of red mist.

When I wake up the following morning to find myself shrouded by a haze of red mist, I start screaming. By Jove, my nightmare wasn't a nightmare! It actually happened! More screams and shouts follow, ricocheting off the walls of my quarters and creating an orchestra of chaos. It's not until I get my glasses on that I realize that my head didn't explode during the night.

It's just Claudia, whose candy-red hair is teased around her head like a cloud, waking me up and chirping about how today will be great because I get to have another makeover.

Oh joy.

* * *

"You look so hot!"

I snap out of my stupor to find the prep team circling me, all of them clutching the tools of their trade. I quickly avert my eyes, glancing down at my bare feet where I notice that someone has painted the nails in a shiny black lacquer. I've wasted an entire day with these people, and I still can't get used to having their attention on me. The day wasn't too bad. At least there was no body waxing involved.

Someone, Ravi I think, left a pair of earplugs on my bedside table while I was sleeping, along with the instructions to put them in when the makeover started. The earplugs proved to be a blessing as they have blocked out the din that comes with being around these people. For once, I could actually spend a day relaxing in my quiet place without interference from the outside world. That is, until Junia woke me up and motioned for me to remove the earplugs.

"Hot?" I whisper. I reach up to press my fingers against my forehead and feel for a temperature, but Vitus slaps my hand away. The spot where he hit me stings.

"Ah-uh, we can't have you smudging up Claudia's hard work before your big moment," he says, wagging a finger at my direction as I nurse my hand. Although the pain has somewhat subsided, the area where he hit me feels like it's on fire.

"That hurt," I gasp, but the prep team just laughs at me.

"Oh, Vitus is just being silly," chimes Junia. "Don't be such a baby!"

I take one huge step back, half-expecting Junia to start pinching my cheeks next. My eyes dart around my room until I spy the full length mirror in the far left of my peripheral vision. I tilt my head in that direction when a loud snapping sound from my right grabs my attention. I jerk my head to the right, only to find Claudia snapping her ring-studded fingers. "Eyes away from the mirror! We can't have you taking a peek before we can get you in your dress! That will spoil the surprise."

"Where is Drusilla anyw…" Vitus is cut off by the loud screeching creak of the door, followed by the rat-a-tat-tap of spiky high heels treading across the hardwood floor.

Drusilla wordlessly bustles into the room, bearing a heavy black garment bag in her arms. She ignores the prep team, who are twittering about how they got everything done to her precise specifications, bypassing them for a gilt clothing rack. She hangs the bag and, without turning around to face me, croaks, "Close your eyes. I do not want anyone to sneak any glances until I say you can."

Junia pipes up about how its the prep team's job to help me into my interview outfit, but Drusilla glares at her. She shrinks away, looking like a frightened little girl who has just been told off by an older sibling.

I hold my arms out and close my eyes as Drusilla cracks open the garment bag. The first thing I feel as she jams my arms through the sleeves is the fabric. It's rough and itchy and forms itself over the contours of my body like a second skin. Icy fingers skitter across my bare back as she laces me up. Everywhere feels too tight. It's like receiving a hug from someone who won't let go. The stiff material of the bodice crushes my ribs, squeezing the breath out of my lungs until I can only manage quick gasps. My head feels strangely light, and I wonder if its possible to suffocate to death from a dress. Those same icy hands takes hold of my arms and steer me to the left. Walking is nearly impossible in the towering high heels Drusilla has me put on. "Now open your eyes."

I do just that, and what I see takes my breath away. The dress is absolutely exquisite. Flowery black lace covers every inch of me, from the fluted skirt cut from dusky blue silk, to the high, frilly neckline and the sleeves, which end in a pair of lacy gloves. A large black flower made out of the same gauze and lace as the dress is pinned to my hair, which has been dyed back to brown. My glasses are gone. Instead, swirls of black and gold paint line my eyes, making them big and shiny in the light.

Then I see the rest of me, and it leaves me dumbfounded. I… I look pretty. I feel pretty. I've never felt pretty before. How can I? My hair is too short, I don't have boobs, and I've been wearing glasses since I was six years old. I have scars on my arms and some on my face from where my experiments backfired. I slouch. I've been mistaken for a boy too many times to count. And up until now, no one has ever called me "beautiful" or "pretty" or even "cute." It just never happened. Boys at school always passed me over for the other girls, who ignored me. The closest I ever got to receiving any validation was when Herman suggested that I keep my hair short, saying that it suited me more. And this came after ten minutes of him struggling to finish the sentence "you look b-b-b…" To this day, I still wonder what he was trying to say.

I can barely make out a "thank you" to Drusilla and the prep team when the door slams open.

"Hurry up, people, we've gotta get backstage in ten minutes," hollers Prospero, frantically tapping one purple fingernail against a ticking gold pocket watch dangling from his other hand.

The prep team frantically puts the finishing touches on my hair and makeup before Drusilla hustles me to the entryway, where Ravi and Lianna are waiting. Lianna ignores us, and instead pushes the elevator's down button every fifteen seconds.

When he sees me for the first time today, Ravi smiles and gives me a thumbs up. "You look beautiful," he says.

I avert my eyes, blushing. "Thank you." For the first time in a long time, I actually agree with someone's opinion. And hearing Ravi say it means a lot.

Kelvin's entourage joins us a minute later, followed by Kelvin himself, who is fidgeting with the lapels of his dusky blue suit jacket. The suit's shiny material, with its silver trim and large buttons, reminds me of a solar panel, and I wonder if Fabricus actually knows a little something about our industry to have invoked it with our attention-loving boy's ensemble. Like a solar panel, Kelvin could absorb energy and run on that all day long without recharging.

I finger the delicate flowers on my dress and wonder what Drusilla is trying to invoke when a low snorting sound interrupts my train of thought. Looking up, I see Kelvin gaping at me before he breaks out into a fit of laughter.

"Is something wrong?" asks Ravi.

Kelvin just shakes his head, trying to contain his laughter. "No offense, Ada," he explains in between chuckles, "but you look like a guy in that dress."

"Hey!" snaps Claudia. "We worked hard on that ensemble. Unlike your prep team."

The members of Kelvin's prep team glare at Claudia, but I can't help but agree with her. Kelvin just looks like Kelvin, only this time he is wearing a nice suit. The only modifications that his prep team had to do for him was to get rid of his acne. Even then, there is a minor flare up on his chin that the makeup can't conceal.

"Hold it!" shouts Ravi, getting in between the two teams and holding his arms out. "I don't want any fighting tonight! Do you understand?"

Our prep teams step back. But Kelvin continues to stare at me, snickering and shaking his head. Ravi turns to him and says, "And you should apologize to Ada and her prep team. They put a lot of hard work and effort into her look."

Kelvin lets out a sigh. "Fine. I'm sorry."

A few seconds pass before he pipes up with, "But seriously, Ada. What kind of girl keeps her hair that short? It looks like your trying to grow out a buzz cut!"

Before anyone can respond, the elevator doors slide open and Prospero hurries us inside. All the while, I am glaring at Kelvin, resisting the urge to cuff him over the back of the head,_ a la_ Herman whenever Harvey does or says something stupid.

* * *

**A/N: I am really sorry for the delayed update. I tried to keep to a schedule, but real life got in the way and threw my plans off course. I'm sorry that not a whole lot goes on in this chapter. It's more like a filler chapter. On the plus side, we have two more chapters left to go before we can finally move on to the Games. So there's something to look forward to.**

**I would like to thank my readers, reviewers, and followers. You guys are great, and I highly appreciate all of your support. I know I said this before, but there is no other way of saying how much it means to me. Again, thank you. And the next chapter should be posted soon._  
_**

**There is one last thing I want to add. A DIY solar-powered radio is actually possible. I based Ada's project on a similar project I found on Instructables (a website devoted to all things DIY) called the "$3 Emergency Solar Radio". Credit to it goes to Joshua Zimmerman, who originally post it on the site.  
**


	6. Chapter 6

As usual, Prospero's insistence that we get to the stage as soon as possible made us early. Although about half a dozen tributes are still unaccounted for, that doesn't stop him from lining Kelvin and I up with the ones who are here. Despite the high heels I have to wear, I feel tiny standing between Kelvin and the buff, bronze-skinned District 4 boy, who I swear is about the same height as Herman. Right before he and Lianna leaves, Ravi leans in and whispers to us, "Break a leg."

"Are you insane?" I whisper. The Games begin tomorrow! I can't show up with a big old cast on my leg. That's is akin to holding up a sign that reads "Easy Target: Come and Get It"! The Capital won't care if you get hurt right before the Games start; they're still going to make you go. That's what happened with this one boy District 5 sent a few years ago. He broke his hand during training, and was killed by a District 2 meathead during the Bloodbath.

"Kinda dense, are we?" snorts Kelvin.

Ravi just shakes his head. "I didn't mean to literally break a leg," he says. "It's a figure of speech that people in show business say for good luck."

"People in show business are morons," I mutter under my breath. Why can't they just say "good luck" like any other, normal person?

Lianna just glares at us with her pointy chin and nose held up high. "Kelvin, don't say anything stupid. And Ada, don't you even thinking of ducking your head when you go out there. I want you looking at the crowd and not at your lap. Got that?"

Look out at the crowd? Is she crazy? All of the Capital is going to be out there tonight. I can't face them! There will be too many of them!

I start to feel queasy as Caesar Flickerman bounds onto the stage to a fanfare of applause. He looks the same every year. Same midnight blue suit that lights up with a thousand lights sewn into the material (which I am pretty sure is hooked up to a battery pack hidden inside of his jacket). Same puffy hairstyle that is tied in the back with a black ribbon. Same exuberance of someone ready to meet the new tributes, even if he will never see most of them again. The only thing that is different is his hair colour and makeup, which he rotates out for something new and "in-style".

This year, Caesar's chosen colour scheme is silver: silver eye shadow, silver lip stick, and silver hair, which seems to make the ageless man look so much older.

"Hello Panem," he proclaims, "and welcome to the Interviews for the 66th Annual Hunger Games!"

The cheers of the Capitolites continues to ring throughout their enclosed little city in the mountains as Ceasar introduces the first tribute, the District 1 girl who calls herself Tiara.

Tiara gives a sly smirk as she tosses her pin straight, golden hair over one shoulder and struts over to Caesar. District 1 females, I noticed, all look the same: long blonde hair, green or blue eyes, statuesque figure, and a "I'm better than you" expression that would make Lianna Horvath look humble. It kind of makes you wonder if District 1 clones their tributes in a quest to make the perfect Victor. To top off their look, their stylists almost always put them in a skimpy outfit. This year's model comes in an sequined emerald green number that flaunts her… um, assets.

"Hello, Caesar," purrs Tiara, exploiting her "sexy" angle for all that it's worth. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. You are more handsome than the television lets on."

Kelvin makes a loud gagging noise, jerking his finger at his gaping mouth, while the District 6 girl standing behind him looks just as nauseous at this sickening display of flattery.

The next minute is wasted on Caesar and Tiara banter over who is prettier before she finally admits that she is the fairest. "But I'm more than just a pretty face," she teases. "If looks could kill, you'd have to hand me that Victor's crown right now!"

Her District partner is just as bad. Shine plays up the handsome lech angle by announcing, "Finnick Odair, you better watch your back because your fangirls are going to be mine once I win these Games!" The Capitol goes wild. Some of them shout, "Oh, no you didn't!" The pair from 4 hurls every insult that their District has to offer at the television screen bolted over our heads. But this only adds fuel to the fire as Shine continues to flirt with the audience with gusto.

Almost every tribute has an angle that is so exaggerated, it's almost like they have been reduced a caricature of themselves. The District 2 girl, wearing a blood-red tuxedo, is a trash talking tomboy who boasts that she can beat any man in a fight. Her partner is a behemoth who challenges her claim by reminding the audience that she doesn't stand a chance against him. Cordelia of District 3 is as chipper and talkative now as when I first met her, and she is the first person who can talk as rapidly as Caesar. The District 4 girl, Doris, is proud and arrogant, invoking the image of a queen with her rich gown and golden diadem sitting on top of her auburn curls. Ulysses, her "king", is a jolly giant who calls Caesar "dude" and tries to bump fists with him, calling it the "official greeting of District 4".

The only tribute who feels genuine is the runty District 3 boy, Botley, who starts crying on stage when Caesar asks him about his mother.

Although the interviews are supposed to be three minutes each, it feels like the buzzer is going off every thirty seconds. With each interview, I feel less confident about my ability to hold my own against these tributes. There's only so much a nice dress can do. At the end of the night, words and actions are going to speak louder than looks.

And I don't think I have what it takes to make myself memorable to these crowds.

"Ada Linus!"

Well, here I go.

My breath hitches as I get up and make my way towards the center stage. Being in this brightly lit, enclosed space has amplified all of my senses. Everything is sharper. The bright colors that the Capitolites favor are eye sores. The applause is ear-piercing.

_Don't panic_, I think. _Whatever happens, don't panic. No one likes a panic attack because they only make things worse._

Caesar flashes a blindingly white grin as he quickly shakes my hand before guiding me to the empty seat across from his. He mercifully lets go of me before I can slip into panic mode.

"It's a good thing we have these chairs set up tonight. We wouldn't want you to go through another fainting spell,"he says as he sits down, swinging one leg over the other knee and propping his head on one hand.

"Yes, thank you," I say, ducking my head and blushing in embarrassment. Cripes, I can't believe these people still remember that.

"So, Ada, what was going through your head when you name was picked at the Reaping?" asks Caesar. "It must have been shocking enough for you to have fainted right then and there!"

"It was."

"It was? Surely there must be more to the story! Tell us! What made you faint? " implores Caesar.

"Well… I...um…" I know what I want to say, but it feels like the words are lodged in my throat. After several seconds of mouthing what I want to say, I can finally make out a sentence. "The stress. A-a-and being in that crowded square. I'm c-c-claustrophobic, so that and the stress shut my brain down. It's like when a nuclear reactor goes into a meltdown. You have to shut it down immediately, contain it, and cool down the reactor core before any real damage is inflicted. And I think that's what my body was trying to do. It was shutting down so that I can recover."

"That is an interesting analogy! Tell me, do you work in the nuclear facilities?"

"No. But I read a lot of books about nuclear power. I had hoped that I would work in that field since only the best of the best can be assigned there.

That's a lie. Personally, I never really wanted to work at the nuclear facilities. It's too dangerous. Most people who work there tend to die young from radiation poisoning or cancer. While the pay is great, the risk isn't worth it. But saying that I want to work in that field is more believable than saying that I just wanted to learn more about it.

I look up and notice that Caesar is wearing silver nail polish that shines in the bright light. While I know Lianna would want me to make eye contact with Caesar, I can't follow through on it. No matter how hard I try, I just can't look him in the eye. It makes me nervous. So instead, I train my focus on those long silver fingernails.

"What a shame. How is it that an intelligent girl like you would manage to receive such a low score during training? Tell me you have a plan hidden up your sleeve!"

I squeeze the edge of my chair. Why did he have to mention the score? Why, oh why? And what does it mean, have something hidden up my leave? I don't have anything hidden up there. That's impossible with the skintight material of the dress.

"Caesar, I'm not allowed to bring to bring anything into the Games that would be an advantage. I especially wouldn't be able to hide anything in my sleeve. Surely you would know that!" I gasp.

Caesar let's out a chuckle, smacking himself in the head with the heel of his palm. "Of course! Silly me, how could I have forgotten!"

He turns to the Gamemakers, who are sitting on the balcony overlooking the stage. "She isn't allowed to bring anything with her into the Arena, am I right?"

"Only her district token, and that's if it doesn't present an unfair advantage in the Arena!" one of them shouts.

"My mistake!" exclaims Caesar, tossing his hands up in the air. "But in all honesty, how do you plan on surviving in the Arena?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you," I whisper. "If I do, everyone will know and they'll use that knowledge to track me down. I can't risk it."

"Ah," sighs Caesar. He sounds so disappointed that I don't have a plan that he can exploit or publicly broadcast to the other twenty-three tributes who will want to kill me.

In actuality, I don't really have a plan. Well, except one; keep out of the way. But without knowing what the Arena will be like, I don't know if hiding will be an option. For all we know, tomorrow might see me in a tundra or a prairie or a desert, somewhere that is flat and difficult to blend in to.

Caesar leans back in his chair and studies my overall look. I glance down at my lap, tightly lacing my fingers together and trying to contain myself. "I apologize for staring, but I can't get over how you look tonight! You look absolutely radiant!"

I let out a low snort, blushing furiously under the thick layer of makeup the prep team slathered on my face. "You must be joking. I'm not that beautiful. Not with all these other lovely ladies here."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Caesar gets up and takes my hand. I see it as a cue to stand up in front of this crowd. He raises my arm up high and shouts, "Tell me, isn't she just the loveliest?"

The crowd loudly and cheerfully voice their agreement, but I notice that it isn't as uproarious as when Tiara or Doris was up here. Then again, who in their right mind would disagree with the great Caesar Flickerman? He is the kind of person who could propose a plan to rob President Snow, and have a few hundred people would join him without a second thought.

"The Capitol seems to disagree," he says. "I would assume that District 5 feels the same way. Tell me, is there a special someone in your life? A boyfriend, perhaps?"

A boyfriend? As in a real, live, "I want to hold your hand and kiss you under the stars or in the rain, make babies with you, and live happily ever after" boyfriend? He has got to be kidding me.

I blush and smile as I shake my head in response. No, I don't have a boyfriend. What a silly question to ask to a girl who can't even give her best friend a hug, let alone have her first kiss.

But Caesar just lets out a hearty laugh. "I don't think you're being honest. Surely there has to be someone waiting for you back home!

Oh, there is someone waiting for me alright. There was never any doubt; not from the moment he made me promise that I will survive, even if I can't uphold my end of the bargain. He is somebody who I deeply care for and who means everything to me. He might not be my boyfriend, but he's my best friend. And that's more than I could ever ask for. His name lingers on the tip of my tongue.

"Please, tell us his name!"

I turn my head away, averting my eyes so that I am only looking at the polished wood floor. The crowd eggs me on, chanting, "Tell us! Tell us!"

"His name is Herman," I whisper.

The buzzer sounds before Caesar can respond. Now I can finally leave the spotlight and let Kelvin take over.

"Well, I think we all know who you will be fighting for tomorrow," says Caesar, taking my hand and kissing it before raising it once again. "Ada Linus, everybody!"

* * *

"Oh my stars! Ada, why didn't you mention that you have a boyfriend?" Prospero shrieks as he charges into the apartment, nearly ambushing me as I'm leaving my quarters and toweling off my hair after washing off all the beauty products the prep team slathered me in. Although the hairdryer in my bathroom is reassembled, I think I accidentally broke it because it doesn't work any more.

"I didn't," I mutter, wrapping the damp towel around my shoulders. "I don't have a boyfriend."

"Don't be silly! We all saw that interview," chimes Prospero. "You know, the one where you admit that you have a special boy waiting for you at home!"

"But that's all he is! He's just a friend who is special to me!"

Instead of listening, Prospero continues to ramble. "Oh, dukes! Had I known, I could have created a whole new angle for you! The shy girl from 5 who is fighting to get back to the boy she loves. Or, even better! She can't reveal her crush for him, and when she does, it's too late! Oh, the Capitol would just eat it up! They adore a tragic love story."

Out of the corner of my eye, I can spy Ravi and Lianna leaving the elevator before stopping to chat in the entryway. Lianna has a wide grin on her face while Ravi is running a hand through his now-disheveled salt-and-pepper hair. Finally! Maybe Ravi can talk some sense into him.

I run up to Ravi. "Tell him that I don't have a boyfriend," I beg.

Lianna cuts in before Ravi can say anything. "That's not what you said onstage," she says.

"He just asked if I had someone waiting for me at home. And I did have one."

"Yeah. After the part where he asked if you have a boyfriend."

"Which I don't!"

Lianna just rolls her eyes, and I have to bite down on my lip in order to resist the urge to kick her in her stick-thin shin. "You really are dense, aren't you?" she asks. "Did it ever occur to you that Caesar was going to try to get you to fess up? You may have said "no", but your body language told a whole different story. To him, it was pretty fucking obvious that you have a boyfriend and you were just denying it!"

"But it's not-"

"Quiet!"

Lianna and I stop and turn to face Ravi, who is holding his hands up and scowling. "I think I've heard enough for tonight," he says. "Lianna, just shut up and don't say anything until I say so. Ada…" He shook his head, sighing softly; that was a look I knew far too well. What he is about to say next isn't going to be good. "I'm sorry to say this, but it did sound like you admitted to having one. The fact that you named him doesn't help either."

I could feel every inch of me burning up, my hands clenching themselves into fists. The pressure of something inside of me, I don't know what, was building up and ready to explode like a nuclear reactor that had just reached critical mass. "Oh for the love of- HERMAN ISN'T MY BOYFRIEND!" I scream before taking off down the hall, shoving Kelvin out of the way before he can even ask me what is going on. "HE'S JUST MY FRIEND!"

Once I get back to my quarters, I slam the door shut behind me and collapse onto the bed.

After what feels like an eternity, my head starts to clear up. Now that I am able to think straight, I start to replay the events of those three minutes in the safety of my mental quiet place. The events themselves are straightforward. I never said that I have a boyfriend, let alone imply the existence of any romantic partner. So why are Lianna and Prospero making such a big deal about it?

But as I watch the recap of the part where he asks about the somebody at home, I take note of how my face seems to light up when I think of Herman. That look on my face mirrors that of Dad whenever he talks about Mother, and only Mother. Especially whenever he goes into the stories about how they met, how he asked her to marry him, their wedding, and the first few years of their lives together. Nearly a decade after she died, it's clear that Dad still loves her.

I open my eyes and sit up in bed. Everything below my rib cage suddenly goes numb when the realization hits me. "Oh Cripes," I mumble, running a hand through my hair.

Am I really in love with Herman?


	7. Chapter 7

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

The pounding at the door jolts me out of my thoughts as I open my eyes. I find myself lying in the massive tub installed in the bland oasis that is my bathroom, where for the last several hours or so I've been trying to comprehend with what had happened this evening.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

The knocking at the door is not like the light taps that Dad would use if he wanted me to come out of my room. They're more like three heavy raps that leaves the door shaking in its place.

"Whoever it is, go away!" I shout. It better not be Lianna or Prospero. I am getting really sick of them. Then it hits me, the reason why someone would be at the door. Oh Jove, is it time to leave? I start shaking in my place, breathing heavily. Is it morning already? Oh no, no, no! I'm not ready to go! I'm not ready to leave! I didn't even get any sleep. If I collapse in the Arena, that will be the end of me!

"Ada?" That's not Lianna or Prospero. No, it's Ravi as he continues to pound on the door. "Ada, are you alright?"

"N-no. No, I'm not," I sputter, trying my best to contain the shaking in my voice. "Ravi, I'm not ready to go."

"Go? Ada, it's nearly midnight! The Games don't start for hours." There is some shuffling on the other side of the door before Ravi speaks up. "I'm going to open the door, and we're going to talk. Understand?"

"Yes."

The door creaks open as Ravi stands in the entryway. The look of worry on his face softens to that of sadness as he sees me curled up in the tub. "Oh, Ada," he says, sighing as he continues to stand by the door. At this point, any other person would have asked me if I was all right, even when I don't look or feel okay. But instead, he just says, "Let's talk on the roof. There's a garden up there that I think you might like."

* * *

Ten minutes later, Ravi and I are standing on top of a flight of stairs as he pushes the door that leads to the roof. A gust of cool wind greets us as we step outside, and what I see leaves my jaw hanging open. The Capitol has been transformed into a sea of lights that seems to go on for miles. Buildings glow in the bright, golden light and seem to take on a new character at night. I rush up to the railing. It is absolutely spectacular up here! I've been up on the roof of my apartment building at night. While we get a reliable supply of electricity, District 5 in the evening is nowhere near as magnificent.

Ravi chuckles as he sees me leaning over the edge, staring down at the street parties taking place below. "If you think this is amazing," he says, "wait until you see the garden."

I follow him to the garden on the other side of the roof. Exotic flowers and potted trees line the edge of the building and are organized into large, colorful blocks with paved walkways built between them. Creeping green shrubbery hangs over the sides of the Training Center. The trees are festooned with wind chimes that tinkle lightly in the wind and strings of lights that give them an otherworldly look. And then there are the flowers themselves; I have never seen so many in one place before! They are all in full bloom, with softly hued petals that come in pink, orange, yellow, purple, and blue and which emit a delicate perfume. If you were to try and transplant any of these flowers back in 5, they would wilt under the harsh desert sun and die within a week.

Ravi takes a seat on one of the two wicker couches that were pushed together to form an enclosed seating area. He gestures for me to take a seat on the couch opposite him, which I accept.

Before he can ask what is wrong, I blurt out, "I think I'm in love with Herman!"

Ravi doesn't say anything. He simply stares ahead with a placid expression on his face. I frown as I shift in my seat, trying to get a good look at his face so that I can try to decipher what he is thinking. Once again, I find myself in a position where I am wishing that I could read facial expressions and body language. This calm demeanor is aggravating. I want to know what Ravi is thinking! Did he already know I love Herman? Or is he just used to these last-minute declarations of love from my predecessors?

"And… and..." I gasp, squeezing my eyes shut. Suddenly, I feel lightheaded. Everything that has transpired this evening comes crashing together with a force that sends my brain in a tailspin. I try to calm down, but instead I start sobbing.

"Ravi, what am I going to do? Herman is my best friend, and lately it feels like all I've been doing is hurting him. You know what he said to me after the Reaping? 'You'll survive this. I know you can. You can think of a way to win this. You just can't give up.' I told him that I'll try, but I know I can't! And at the end of the day, this is all going to affect him more than me because he's the one who is going to have to live with this."

I curl up on the sofa and bury my face in my hands, my body shaking. "He's going to be alone, and it'll be my fault! Do you know what happened the last time someone close to him died? He just shut down! It took him months to get back to normal! And that was for his grandfather! Ravi, I'm so scared that it will only get worse for him after this. I just want him to be alright. He has to be alright."

I feel something soft brush against my hand and look up to see Ravi holding out a handkerchief. "Thanks," I whisper, taking the handkerchief and wiping my eyes with it.

Several minutes pass by in silence before Ravi speaks up. "This might not sound like much, but I have an idea," he says. "This is something that I did before my Games, and it really helped me make my peace before I went to the Arena."

I perk my head up. "What was it?"

* * *

As soon as we return to the apartment, Ravi disappears down the hallway before returning a few minutes later with a few sheets of paper, an envelope, and a pen in hand. Taking the paper and pen from him, I seat myself at the dining room table.

"This might help you ease your mind," he says. "I know it did for me. If you need me, I'll be in the living room."

I nod my head as I start to pen my last letter to him:

_My darling Herman,_

I stop, quickly read over what I had just written, and make a disgusted face. That sounds way too sappy, like something one of the over-hormonal, over-dramatic girls in my class would write to some popular boy who doesn't even know she exists. I quickly crumple the paper and toss it over my shoulder before taking a new sheet of paper.

__My dear Herman,__

Oh dear Jove no. That is just as stupid.

I cross it out, only to realize that Herman is still going to notice the "my dear boy". There is no way I am going to let him see that. I can't let him see that. He'll think I'm crazy! I wad up the paper and try again.

__Herman,__

Now that is just plain being lazy. I can't start my last letter to him as impersonal as this. This is what I'd write if I want him to meet me somewhere after school, not when I want to tell him how I feel about him. I try to rectify this by hastily scribbling in a "dear" in the margins, but the words look so cramped and sloppy. Dammit! I want this letter to look nice, but... ugh! How can I write it if I can't even come up with a good salutation?

I reach for a new sheet of paper, but find that I've already used up the ones Ravi gave me. Double dammit.

"Um, Ravi?" I call out. "I think I'm going to need more paper."

* * *

An hour later, I am signing my name with a flourish of the pen before folding the ends of the paper over each other and tucking it inside the envelope with the utmost care. Then, in my best legible handwriting, I write Herman's name and address on the envelope before sealing it.

True to his word, I find Ravi sitting on a sofa, his back turned to me, in the living room.

"When you get back to 5, could you please deliver this to him?"

"Of course," Ravi solemnly says, taking the envelope out of my hand and tucking it in the innermost pocket of his suit jacket. "You should get to bed now. You're going to need all the rest you can get."

"I don't know if I can," I admit. "I'm still scared."

"I know," he replies in a soft voice. I glance up at him, knowing full well what he meant it. "I was like you once, remember? Thirty-six years ago, I was sitting in this very apartment, worried out of my skull about the following morning."

He pauses for a moment before speaking up again. "If it makes you feel better, would you like me to stay with you, up until you leave for the Arena? I know this isn't much, but…"

"Yes, please!" I interrupt, smiling. At least when I die, I'll die knowing that I had a friend and an ally in the Capitol.

I decide not to go back to my quarters. Instead, I retrieve a blanket and a pillow and set up a makeshift bed on a sofa in the living room. As I lie down, taking my glasses off and putting them on a side table before pulling the blanket over me, Ravi appears by my side with a small blue vial in his hands.

"You should take this now," he says grimly, holding out the vial. I eye it, wondering what it might be. It better not be Morphling. There was this tenant who lived next door to the LaPortes and who was addicted to that stuff. It aged him by thirty years and turned his sagging skin into a bright sulfur yellow before it finally killed him. By the time he died, he didn't even look human!

"If it's Morphling, I'm not taking it," I whisper.

"Don't worry, it's not," he says, twisting the cap open and holding it out to me. I take the vial and gingerly sniff it, trying to figure out what it is. "It's sleep syrup. It'll help you get a good night's rest."

Without a second thought, I down the bottle before handing it back to him. Almost instantly, I can feel my head grow all foggy and heavy as the drug takes hold. I lay back on the sofa and stare up at the ceiling, but not before being jolted away by a long, droning peal of a gong as it sounded from down the hall.

"That sounds like the the Tick-Tock Man," I whisper, half in a daze. "Ravi… what is the Tick-Tock Man doing here?"

"That's not the Tick-Tock Man, Ada. That's just a hallway clock. I don't even know what a Tick-Tock Man is."

"It's a robot," I whisper, settling myself back on the sofa. "Herman's grandpa said that the Tick-Tock Man was a robot made out of clock parts, but it dressed like a man so that it could travel without raising any suspicion. He said that if you were naughty, it would come and teleport you to his spaceship, where you will never be seen again. The only way you can tell it's here is by the noise it makes: a loud, ticking noise, followed by the peal of a gong that stuns its victim as it closes in. Did I ever tell you that this was how Herman and I met?"

"No. But you should go to sleep."

I ignore Ravi. Someone might as well know. Come next year, I'll most likely be forgotten. If anyone does remember me, it will be because the prep team will be badmouthing their last tribute, a girl with extremely short hair and scars on her arms who wouldn't let strangers touch her. I don't want to be forgotten, but I don't want to be remembered for something based on some shallow assumption. At least, I don't want to be forgotten by the one friend I made since this ordeal started. If anyone is to know this story, it should be Ravi.

"I was eight," I begin, "and Mother was dying. She couldn't breathe and her body was wasting away. I couldn't stand to be in the apartment with her. So one day, I was reading in the hallway when I heard this weird little noise coming from my right hand side.

"Wondering what it could be, I took off in the direction of that sound, only to find Herman LaPorte standing in the middle of this deserted corridor. I had seen Herman around, and I always thought he was kind of a weirdo. That day was no different. He was just standing there, holding a silver penlight out and waving it around, muttering nonsense to himself, and…" I chuckle at the memory of it, "and he was wearing a cape and this little, red, felt cap on his head! He looked so ridiculous! I was just about to run when he turned to me and shouted, 'You gotta watch out! The Tick-Tock Man is loose in the building!'"

"What happened next?" asks Ravi.

"I was about to tell Herman that he was being stupid when this really loud, banging noise sounded from one of the nearby units. It was probably a neighbor's grandfather clock, but back then, it spooked me so much that I was reduced to this cowering, sobbing mess right there in the hall!

"'That's not the Tick-Tock Man, is it?' I screamed. 'Please tell me it's not the Tick-Tock Man!'"

"The next thing I knew, Herman had crouched down beside me. 'It's sounds like he's getting close,' he said. 'But if you follow me, I'll make sure that the Tick-Tock Man never, ever catches you.' And… and I guess… you can say… the rest was hist…"

I can feel my body growing heavy as the syrup finally takes hold of me. My eyes slide to a close as I drift back into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

The following morning, I wake up to the smell of something delicious wafting in the air. I blearily open my eyes and reach for my glasses, which are sitting on the coffee table, before sitting up on the sofa and nearly butting heads with Ravi in the process.

"Oh good, you're awake," he says. "I hate to have to tell you this, but we're due up on the roof in an hour and a half. You should get ready."

I sleepily nod my head as I stumble off the couch and lumber down the hall to my quarters. I quickly shower and change into a white shift that is waiting for me, folded up, on the counter before heading back to the dining room. There I find Kelvin and Prospero sitting at the table, while Ravi stands at one of the windows, sipping a cup of coffee. Lianna is nowhere to be seen.

When Kelvin asks where she is, Ravi replies with, "She left for the Games Headquarters last night."

Not that I mind. I think I've had enough Lianna Horvath to last a lifetime.

Breakfast consists of rolls, eggs, bacon, and a carafe of orange juice. There isn't anything fancy, but its enough to keep our stamina up. I get my food, but find that I can't bring myself to eat it. It's like my stomach has been tied into several knots.

No one dares to speak up. The tension is almost suffocating. It's as if that feeling of extreme unease has manifested itself into the form of an unwanted house guest who refuses to vacate the premises. Squeezing my eyes shut, I start to rock in place, twisting a fine linen napkin in my hands. I have never felt more apprehensive than I did now. Waiting for the Games to begin is worse than waiting for the results of a difficult exam to come back.

After what feels like a millennium, Prospero rises from the table and announces, "It's nearly eight o'clock. We should get going."

We silently rise from our places and follow him to the elevators, which then skyrockets us to the roof. Within seconds, it deposits us on the rooftop, where a hovercraft is waiting for us. Seeing the hovercraft perched on the landing pad, its sharp contours and polished silver surface glinting brightly in the early morning light like a knife blade, I can't help but feel a sinister vibe radiating from it.

"Well, this is goodbye," sniffles Prospero before babbling on about how it was such a pleasure to be our escort and how he wishes us all the best in the Arena. I highly doubt he means it though. Finally, he closes his farewell by lunging forward to give Kelvin a kiss on both cheeks. Kelvin makes a face before jumping back as soon as he lets go. When it's my turn, I shrink away from Prospero's grasp.

"That's enough! You know how Ada hates that," reprimands Ravi. I whisper my thanks as Prospero settles for a simple wave of his gloved hand before heading to the elevator, his head bowed down. I can't decide if it's because he is upset about losing another pair of tributes, or because this year will be just as disastrous for him as all the other since he started working as an escort. Who knows? Maybe it's a little of both.

Ravi then turns to face us. "There isn't much I can say left," he says to us in the tone of voice that reminds me of a teacher on the eve of an important exam. "But what I can tell you is this. As soon as that gong sounds, run away from the Cornucopia. If you can escape the Bloodbath and survive the first night, then your odds will be increased exponentially. I hope you both took advantage of the survival stations in the Training Center, because you are going to need to rely on every one of those skills in order to survive. Good luck to the both of you, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

He reaches over to shake Kelvin's hand, but when it's my turn, he makes do with a simple wave. I flash him a small smile as I wave back, appreciative of his gesture. Then he leans in and whispers in my ear, "Whatever happens, I'll make sure that letter reaches Herman."

I nod my head. "Thank you," I choke out. Kelvin is already ascending the ladder to the hovercraft, but before I join him, I turn to Ravi for one last time. "Before I go, I want to say one last thing. Thank you. Not only for doing me this favor, but also for helping me. I don't think I would have made it without you."

"You're very welcome," replies Ravi. "It was the least I can do. Goodluck, Ada. I think you will do brilliantly."

I flash Ravi one last smile, trying to maintain a brave face, before grabbing a hold on one of the ladder rungs. The ladder freezes me in place. Ravi Mazzarin quickly disappears from my sight as the ladder lifts me up into the hovercraft.

An icy hand takes of hold my arm as a woman's voice calmly states, "Don't panic. I am just going to insert this tracker." What follows is a stinging sensation as the tracker is stabbed deep into my forearm. If I wasn't paralyzed by whatever current is being used to keep me glued to the ladder, I would be screaming by now. As soon as the ladder releases its hold on me, I collapse onto the ground. My legs start to feel woozy as I get up, and I have to rely on an Avox to help me to my seat.

The ride to the Arena is quick and uneventful. It feels like the hovercraft has barely taken off before it lands again.

Peacekeepers greet Kelvin and me as we descend down the ladder and into the underground reception room before escorting us through the network of catacombs and tunnels that run deep beneath the Arena. I lose sight of Kelvin as I am directed away from him. As I turn around to catch one,and possibly my last, glimpse of him, I can't help but notice how small he looks as he is led down another hallway, sandwiched between two burly Peacekeepers who are nearly a foot taller than him.

After several minutes of marching me through a series of narrow, icy cold concrete tunnels that invokes the feeling of being led to my own tomb, the two Peacekeepers drop me off at my designated Launch Room. Drusilla is waiting for me, seated at a metal table. She wordlessly pushes a parcel into my hands as soon as I approach her.

My heart skips a beat as I unwrap the parcel. Enclosed is this year's Arena uniform: a pair of dark blue coveralls with the number "5" embroidered on the right front pocket, a leather belt with pouches and pockets sewn into the sides, a pair of thick wool socks, a pair of heavy, steel-toed boots, and undergarments. I have a similar pair of coveralls at home; it's part of my work uniform on the maintenance crew, and for a moment, I idly wonder if these Games will be held in a power plant. As much of a stretch as it would be, I would readily welcome it if it means that I have a shot at surviving this.

I refuse Drusilla's offers to dress me. As soon as I make sure she isn't looking, I quickly put on the clothes. Once I am done, she turns around and surveys me with those cold, beady black eyes of hers that leaves me shuddering.

"Turn around," she croaks, twirling a thin, bony finger in the air. I do as she said until she motions for me to stop. "Based on that ensemble, the Arena will not be a pleasant one. Only the Avoxes who work on the Transfer would wear such a thing. From what I hear, it is a filthy cesspool. I don't know who was put in charge of designing these uniforms, but I will say that they most certainly should be fired! The bagginess is the most unbecoming, and dark blue hasn't been 'In' for over five years."

I respectfully disagree. Having worn coveralls before, I can attest that the bagginess will allow me to run with ease. The thick cotton material is durable, easy to clean, and can withstand cold temperatures. Because of the dark blue, I doubt it will be a hot environment, as dark colours do absorb heat and would make wearing this unbearable; that's the reason why our summer coveralls come in a light blue. While the boots are heavy, they look and feel like the pair I have back home, so walking around with them on will not be a problem for me.

"One last thing," adds Drusilla. She reaches out into her purse and my eyes widen as she pulls out a familiar length of blue ribbon.

I snatch the ribbon out of her hands and hastily loop it around my neck. I take a hold of the two keys dangling from the ribbon and press the cool metal to my lips. After being apart for so long, it feels so welcoming to have them back in my possession. I'm starting to feel more like myself again.

At least I'll die as myself and not something the Capitol wants me to be. Or at least, I'll die looking like myself. The Games have been known to change people for the worst.

"Five minutes until Countdown," chimes a robotic, yet feminine sounding voice echoes slightly through the small and barren room.

"That's your cue to go," says Drusilla as she gestures to the metal plate encased in a glass tube. My heart is pounding in my chest as I swallow and nod my head. It takes every effort not to stumble to the tribute tube, even though my legs suddenly feel like they have been turned to jelly.

As soon as I step on the plate, my hand quickly flies up to stroke those familiar keys that have been my constant for most of my life before jerking it away. No! I can't do anything that will distract me. Within a few minutes, I am going to have to run for my life.

Instead, I ball my hands into fists, my thumbs stroking my tightly entwined fingers.

"Run, Ada," I mutter to myself, squeezing my eyes shut and holding my head up high. Now is not the time to cower. If I cower, then that will serve as an invitation for someone to off me. "Moment that gong sounds, just run. Run when the gong sounds… run when the gong sounds… run when the gong sounds…"

The metal plate shifts beneath my feet as I am slowly lifted out of tube and into the death world waiting for me on the other side.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you everybody who has been reading and reviewing. I really enjoy reading the comments you left and I appreciate all the feedback you have to offer. Especially Igenlode Wordsmith for her review. You're right about how the beginning part of the chapter sounded.  
_

_I apologize for the long chapter length. There was a lot of material I had to cover before I could move on to the Games (which will be the next chapter, I promise!). Also, I apologize for the melodramatic feel of this section. I'm not very good at writing anything in the romance category as I consider myself to be asexual and somewhat aromantic. So I hope this turned out okay without going into narm territory. _

_I should give credit where credit is due: Hunger Games belong to Suzanne Collins. But the OC's are mine. _

_But now I can finally move on to the Games. It might be a while before the next chapter is uploaded as I am anticipating yet ANOTHER move and the flashdrive containing the next few chapters went missing while I was packing up my stuff._

_Thank you guys for all of your support, especially to my readers and everybody on the forums I frequent._

_On a final note, I really want to thank Clicketykeys for the "Ravi, I'm going to need more paper line". Credit goes to her for it, though I did ask for permission to use it. Again, thank you. I think the chapter is all the better with this line in it._

_Now, I know originally, I had the draft of Ada's letter to Herman on here, but in revising the chapter, I decided to take it out. It just never felt right to have it in the story and it certainly didn't feel like something she would write. In the end, I decided to take it out for that reason and because I figure that a letter of an intimate nature such as this farewell letter should be one of those secrets best kept between two characters and not shared by anyone else._


	8. Chapter 8

A putrid odor hits me at full force as my podium ascends into the Arena. Gagging, I tug the collar of my shirt over my nose and mouth. Although the stench is still there, I can breath the air without feeling sick.

The sky is grey and cloudy. I can only imagine how much this place would stink if today was sunny and hot. Tributes would be dropping like flies and the Victor would be someone with a weak sense of smell. As my podium locks into place, I take at look at my surroundings. My jaw drops at what I see.

The Arena is a garbage dump.

A mountain range of trash circles the Cornucopia, its shiny gold surface looking so out of place in this wasteland. The ground littered with bits of rubbish while weeds peak through the cracks in the packed earth. Pathways slice through the mountains, but where they lead to is a mystery.

_Sixty seconds…_

For a moment, I am reminded of a past Hunger Games that took place in a maze. The Cornucopia was located in the middle, with passages carved into the hedges that could lead a tribute to fresh supplies, a Gamemaker trap, a fight, or nothing.

_Fifty seconds…_

The Gamemakers shouldn't be reusing the maze gimmick because that particular Games happened two years ago, but I wouldn't be surprised if they were inspired by it. If memory serves me right, that particular Games was insanely popular. And it wasn't just because that District 1 girl, Cashmere, won. When they showed the recap at her Victor Crowning, the editor turned it into a thriller where the tributes were being stalked by Mutts lurking in the shadows and anyone could die. They ran reruns of it for months.

_Forty seconds…_

I survey my surroundings, weighing my options. On one hand, I can make a run for the Cornucopia and retrieve whatever supplies I can get my hands on. Like in previous years, the most valuable supplies such as weapons, food, and water are stacked near the mouth. Of course, this increases my chances of being killed. On the other hand… I can go for the closest bag and make a run for one of the pathways. I won't have as much gear to start off with, but at least I'll be alive.

_Thirty seconds..._

I spot a small backpack lying about ten, maybe twelve, feet away from me. While I don't think it would be filled with anything valuable such a knife or a full canteen, it's better than nothing. I make a goal to get my hands on that bag before I flee the Cornucopia.

The closest pathway, I notice, is about three tributes away from me. While I can't see where it leads to, I know this is the only way I can get out safely. With everyone fighting over supplies at the Cornucopia, no one will notice an escapee.

I hope that the tributes standing next to me don't decide to fight me.

_Twenty seconds..._

Taking stock of the tributes standing next to me, I think I have a good shot at getting away from the Bloodbath. The District 6 boy on my right is trembling, his face blanching to the same color as rotten cottage cheese. The District 12 girl on my left also looks nauseous while the District 10 boy next to her is covering his face with the bandana he brought into the Arena. The closest Career, the District 4 boy, is eight pedestals away from my exit and he looks ready to run the moment that gong sounds.

_Ten seconds…_

"Grab the bag and go," I mumble. "Grab the bag and go. Grab the bag and go."

_Nine seconds…_

My heart is thundering in my chest, blood rushing to my hears and deafening all sound in the Arena. Even if I can barely hear it, I can see the digital timer fixed to the top of the Cornucopia, ticking down the seconds until the Games begin.

_Eight seconds…_

Think of Dad and Herman. You don't want them to see you die, do you?

_Seven seconds…_

No, they're not going to. They are not going to see me go down in the Bloodbath.

_Six seconds…_

I have to get make it through today. I just have to.

_Five seconds…_

I have an escape plan that will work.

_Four seconds…_

I just have to follow the plan.

_Three seconds…_

"You can do this," a tiny voice pipes up in my head.

_Two seconds…_

And for once, I believe it.

_One second…_

**Bbboooooooonnnnnnnnnggggggggg...**

The blaring drone of the gong amplifies itself through the enclosed Arena. I stumble stand back in stunned silence as everyone else leaps off their pedestals. The District 6 boy tumbles off of his pedestal and collapses onto his knees, vomiting. My ears start ringing, followed by a shrill scream.

My screams. My ears are clamped over my ears. Even when I take them down, my ears are still ringing. But there isn't any time left to stand and wait for the noise to die down. Every minute that I waste in this enclosure is another minute closer to death.

I take off for the bag. To my great relief, no one else had grabbed it. Either they are running for the pathways with their supplies in tow, or they're taking their chances at the Cornucopia. I grab the nylon straps of the bag and sprint towards my exit, struggling to fit it over my shoulders as I run.

Then suddenly, something heavy smashes into me from behind, sending the both of us crashing to the ground. I hit the ground with a thud, wincing as pain shoots up in my ribs and hands. The dead weight on my back is suffocating. Whatever this thing is, it's crushing me.

Gasping, I scramble to my feet, but the thing that hit me is pinning me to the ground, tugging at the backpack. I start kicking at whatever is pinning me down, but it will not budge. It's as if a giant is sitting on my back. What feels like a thousand little creatures skitter across my back as my assailant tries to wrench the bag away. The longer this giant is on me, the heavier it feels. I half expect it to start breaking my bones, paralysing me in the process.

"Gimme me that bag," snaps the giant in a high-pitched, nasally voice. But I keep my arms folded across my torso. No! I need that bag more than she does! She can get her own! There's a bunch of them scattered around the Cornucopia!

A small, leathery hand clamps itself over my mouth. I bite down, hard, on the hand. Blood and dirt fill my mouth as my attacker lets out an ear-piercing scream and rolls off of me. I scramble to my feet, catching a glimpse of my attacker in the process.

It's the girl from District 6.

She wraps her uninjured hand around my ankle and jerks it towards her. I collapse onto my knees, pebbles and bits of packed earth digging into my skin as I fall. The hold she has on my ankle is like a vise grip. Almost out of instinct, I start trashing my leg. But she still clings on to me. I start to panic.

Then suddenly, I feel the heel of my boot smash into something hard, following by a sharp cry of pain. Without as much as a glance at the District 6 girl, I scramble to my feet and take off for the path. I push the thought of her out of my mind as I dash through the narrow corridor of debris, praying to any higher power that is listening that I don't encounter another tribute for the rest of the day.

* * *

I keep running for a long time. Sometimes, I will slow down to a brisk walk or a slow jog before picking up speed when I hear something crash behind me. Every so often, I swear I can hear footsteps, but when I turn around, I don't see anyone following me. As the day wears on, the cover of grey clouds burns away to reveal blue skies and a shining sun. The garbage starts to rot under the heat and I yank my shirt up over my mouth as I continue walking.

Eventually the space between the walls widens and I can walk through it without having to brush my hands against the refuse. The corridor lessens until I find myself standing in an open field of debris. Rolling hills of junk spread out before me and seem to go on for miles.

I keep moving, walking in a straight line through the wasteland. I want to put as much distance between me and the Cornucopia as possible before night falls. Past Games have taught me that the Careers usually abandon the Cornucopia for a few hours after the Bloodbath. During that time, the hovercrafts come in to retrieve the bodies. The Careers always take advantage of this to hunt down any tributes who escaped.

My throat starts to ache. I haven't eaten or drank anything all day. Had I known the Arena was going to be a stinking garbage pit without a single watering hole, I would have gorged myself until I was sick.

But maybe I could put off eating and drinking for at least a day. I mean, I don't eat much. When I'm working, my mind is in other places besides food. I could last at least two days without food, but I need water. The human body can't last for more than three days without water.

"Here's the deal, Ada," I tell myself, "you can get through a few days without food. But you need to find a reliable water source by tomorrow night or else. Seriously, you do not want to pass out from dehydration… again. Especially not here."

The Arena has to have at least one water source. Especially after the 63rd Hunger Games; that year was a desert Arena where most of the tributes died from dehydration. The only reason why the only ones left standing by the end of the week were the Careers was because they had all the frickin' water bottles! Most of the Capitol talking heads agreed that, despite some stupidly gorgeous District 1 guy with a ridiculous name winning, it was a boring Games.

But the longer I hike through the field of debris, the more I start to grow desperate. All I can see for miles are the mountains of junk.

"Just keep going," I urge myself. "You'll find a water source soon enough. Gamemakers can't be that stupid enough to repeat the 63rd Games."

* * *

The first round of cannon fire goes off some time during the mid-afternoon. I drop to my knees, covering my ears with my hands as the shots ring out. It can only mean that the Bloodbath is over, and that the Careers are now on the prowl. Realizing that I am in an open space where anyone can see me, I take off and hide inside of a rusty automobile that is half-buried in a garbage mound. Although my hands and the car act as a buffer, I can still count the shots. One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight. Then nothing.

Eight. There are eight dead tributes so far. This doesn't surprise me. An average Bloodbath usually ends with between eight to eleven deaths.

I start ripping out chunks of the foam cushions of the seat behind me, tearing them into smaller pieces and inserting them into my ears. Then I snap my fingers. Though I can hear the snapping, the foam deafens the sound somewhat. It might not be as loud as cannon fire, but it's better than walking around the Arena with my ears unprotected. Hopefully these improvised earplugs will enable me to move about without being shaken by any loud or sudden noise. With the Careers now on the loose, I can only expect more cannon fire throughout the night.

I shut my eyes and lean against the charred, crackled leather seat. "I wonder where Kelvin is."

Is he somewhere in the Arena, hiding out with his alliance? Or is he now a corpse being airlifted back to the Capital to be prepared for burial before being shipped back to District 5 in a simple casket?

Part of me thinks that he survived. After all, he can run. He has some athletic prowess thanks to his years playing baseball. And he miraculously got a seven in training. But there's another part of my brain telling me that Kelvin is a dead man. He may be athletic, but he can be so damn impulsive! He probably decided to take his chances at the Cornucopia. Maybe he thought that if he got his hands on a baseball bat, he would win the Games by bashing his opponents to death.

Honestly, I don't know. That boy is impossible to understand.

I sling the bag off of my shoulders and dump the contents onto the charred black carpet. As expected, the bag doesn't contain much. There is an empty canteen, a packet of unsalted crackers, and… I pick up the third and last object up. When I realize that what this is, I start grinning like a little kid on Parcel Day. It's a large, unopened roll of duct tape!

A soaring feeling rises up in me, filling me with a strange new emotion. I… I feel happy. No, not happy. It's more than that. I feel like I'm flying high, like I am ready to face the Games head on. Sure, I didn't get a weapon and I still don't have any water. But with the duct tape and whatever I can salvage, I can easily make a weapon. And who knows, maybe I might find a water source in the process.

I quickly put everything back in the bag and sling it over my shoulders before getting out of the car. As I walk away, I keep my eyes peeled for anything that could be refashioned into a weapon.

* * *

I locate a shelter just as the sun is beginning to set over the Arena. Or, the closest I can get to a shelter. It's a concrete drainage pipe hidden amongst a mass of trash. Dark, but dry. The opening measured about two feet in circumference. Large enough for a child or someone of my size to slip into and hide, but too small for a muscle-bound Career to squeeze into.

"Hold on, better check to make sure it's empty first," I tell myself. The last thing I want to happen is to climb inside and realize that there's a Mutt lurking inside.

I pick up a rock and chuck it deep into the gaping black maw of the tunnel where the light of the setting sun can't reach. The rock clatters as it bounces against the concrete surface before coming to a stop. For several tense minutes, I crouch down inside of the hole, keeping my ears peeled for a tribute's shout as the rock hits them or the low growl of an incoming Mutt.

But all I am met with is silence. "It's safe. You can go in now." But for several minutes, I just linger at the mouth, hesitant to go inside. "You have to climb inside if you want to see tomorrow." With no other choice, I clamber into the pipe.

The inside reeks of stale sewage, and I have to keep my head close to the mouth in order to breathe in the cool night air. It could be worse, I reason, I could be camping out in the open.

Using the pack as a pillow, I lie down, staring up at the ceiling of the tube. The concrete surface is inches from my nose. The effect is confining, almost claustrophobic. "If you don't want Dad to wake up to the news that you're dead, then you have to stay put."

Suddenly, the Panem anthem blares throughout the Arena, amplified by the force field that seals us inside. Pain pierces through my head as I dig the crude earplugs ever into the ear canals. The tunnel begins to quake as concrete dust rains down on me.

Of course, I think, gritting my teeth as I dig my fingers into my ears, the daily death count.

I tilt my head in such a way that I can see the Capitol insignia projected into the sky without revealing my hiding spot. Strangely enough, I don't feel apprehensive about finding out who the eight are. I already know the Careers survive. They always do.

This year is no different. The recaps skip over Districts 1 and 2 and goes straight to 3. The first face to appear in the sky is Cordelia, the girl who asked me to join her alliance during the first Training Day.

I feel a combination of guilt and relief when I see her smiling face projected into the sky like a constellation. She looked so upset when I turned her down, and the way I told her off feels rude now that I think about it. Yet at the same time, I'm glad I turned her down. Had I joined her alliance, my picture might be up there in the sky after her.

Second is Botley, Cordelia's runty District partner. The third tribute to go is the boy from District 6. My eyes widen when I realize that they didn't just skip over District 5 in the recap. By some miracle, Kelvin somehow managed to survive the Bloodbath!

Unlike the District 6 girl. She's dead. My heart skips a beat when I see her. An icy feeling creeps into the pit of my stomach as I see her up there. Did… did I just kill someone? Oh Jove, I did, didn't I? Even if I didn't look back to see how she was doing, when I left her, she would have been lying on the ground and reeling from that kick I gave her. What did I hit anyway? Her nose? her neck? Or her skull?

No, I couldn't have. I didn't mean it. I was just trying to make her let go. And besides, she attacked first. She had what was coming to her. If she had just gone for another bag, she might still be alive.

"Someone else finished her off," I mutter softly as I watch the recaps, repeating the phrase over and over again. "I stunned her, then someone else finished her off."

Both tributes from 8 are dead. So are the girls from 9 and 12 and the boy from 10.

Finally, the recap finishes with a reprise of the Capitol anthem. Then silence.

I curl up in the pipe, trying to make myself feel as comfortable as possible. Soon, the full weight of the day's events come crashing down. Everything feels heavy as I shut my eyes and drift off.

Suddenly a loud crack of cannon fire rips through the silent night.

A sharp jolt of pain greets me as I sit up in the pipe, cracking my head against the concrete surface. Gold sparks dance before my eyes as I let out a low hiss, gritting my teeth as I massage my head. I let out a sigh of relief when I realize I'm not bleeding. However, there is bump the size of a large chicken egg that is swelling up and a pounding sensation in my skull.

Minutes later, another round of cannon fire sounds.

"Just stop… please make it stop," I whimper, burrowing the earplugs deep into my head.

For a long time after, I lay curled up in that tunnel. But there isn't any more cannon fire after the second shot. Still, I am petrified what might happen next.

There are ten down and thirteen more to go. And right now, it feels like I am stuck in the middle of a giant panic attack that I doubt I can snap out of it knowing that there are thirteen of them left.

* * *

_A/N: I won't lie. The last chapter wasn't my best. But I hope that this chapter and the ones following it will be an improvement. Personally, I'm just glad I can move on to writing the Games. _

_I want to thank everybody who has been reading, reviewing, and favoriting my story. I know I said this before, but I really appreciate all of your support. Your feedback really means a lot to me as it shows me how I can improve as a writer. Again, thank you all so much for reviewing. _


	9. Chapter 9

I wake up the following morning feeling exhausted.

Last night feels like a half-remembered dream. I can't recall much after hearing the cannon shots. But what I do remember is drifting off to sleep, only to wake up at the slightest disturbance outside and being so scared that all I can do is just curl up and wait for the threat to pass. The only means of defense I can muster up is to hide and pray that whatever is outside of the pipe doesn't notice me. When I do go back to sleep, it's only to be re-awoken by a new noise seconds later. Sometimes it will be heavy padding across the ground or something large buzzing through the air. But it always send my mind into overdrive. I don't know what roams the Arena at night, but whatever it is, I don't want to know.

I continue to lie low in my tunnel for hours after the sun comes up before dozing off. When I wake up around midday feeling thirsty, I take it as a sign to move on. Sure, loads of tributes have used hiding as a survival tactic. Some of them even won. But they still had to find water. Slowly and carefully, I start to crawl out of the narrow confines of the drainage pipe.

A wave of nausea washes over me as I stumble out of the pipe's mouth. The headache resulting from last night's accident intensifies. I collapse onto all fours and retch, but nothing comes up.

The Arena's foul odor is worse now than it was yesterday. And it's easy to see why. The thick cover of gray clouds has completely burned away, revealing a wide expanse of clear blue sky and a shining sun. It's so hot. And I can only assume it will get worse as the day wears on.

Realizing that my coughing fit will attract unwanted attention, I yank the collar of my undershirt over my mouth. Then I remember how it kept slipping off my face yesterday, and how much of a pain it was to readjust it.

I duck behind a rusty oil drum and quickly unzip the front of my jumpsuit. Using a rusty razor blade that was lying on the ground, I slice a small hole at the midriff of my shirt before ripping off a long strip. After zipping up my jumpsuit, I quickly tie the strip around my nose and mouth. While it doesn't completely eliminate the odor, at least I don't feel as sick breathing in the air.

There is one thing I feel that I should do first, after spending that first night without a real means to defend myself.

I walk towards one promising junk pile. The metal sheets and poles jutting out from it glimmer in the sunlight, like a pile of silver and gold. I tuck my hands inside the jumpsuit sleeves, doubling the material over until it forms a protective layer around them. Then I latch onto the dull edge of a large piece of sheet metal and start to tug.

"Whoa!" I gasp, losing my footing as the piece is finally dislodged from the pile after several attempts to yank it out. I fall back, wincing as my body hits the hard ground. But whatever embarrassment I feel knowing that the world just saw me fall is quickly diminished when I realize that I have what I need.

It isn't much. It's just a piece of sheet metal that is a foot long, with two sharp, jagged edges, a dull flat end, and a pointed end that had been buried in the heap. I hold it up to the light, studying how the light gleams menacingly along the sharp edges. I then tuck the blade into my belt as I go searching for a suitable handle.

An hour later, I had created my first weapon. The knife is nowhere near as sophisticated as whatever the Cornucopia has to offer: the blade is the metal piece I had found in the heap, while the handle is a bit of polished wood that was probably once a table leg or a chair post. The duct tape holds the pieces together. But it's something. At least if any tribute decides to attack, I have a means of defending myself.

I grin as I stab the knife into a sandbag that was propped up against a pile of copper pipes. The blade creates a long gash in the burlap with ease. The sand quickly spills out as I withdraw the blade.

"Please let someone see this," I whisper. If there are cameras here, I hope they caught me trying out the knife. At least then, it will prove my worth. I'm not completely hopeless. I can make something useful. I might even have a chance. But if the Capitol and the rest of Panem didn't bother to tune in, well I hope Dad and Herman did. At least it will show them that I am trying.

With my knife in hand, I turn on my heel and begin my trek towards the horizon. By now, that nagging ache in my throat has intensified into a burning sensation, like I had just swallowed a bottle of hot sand.

_You did good so far,_ I reassure myself. _Now you just find water. If you can find a water source, then you'll be alright._

* * *

I don't find water on the second day. But I do find all sorts of other junk that makes me think that the refuse in the Arena was collected from Capitol trash bins for months. So far, I have found discarded cosmetics, broken electronics, gilded furniture with springs and stuffing leaking out of gaping holes in the upholstery, stained and ripped clothing, and food.

There are chicken bones with chunks of meat still on them, bruised fruits, fish heads, pink boxes with slices of stale cake inside, and an astonishing amount of vegetables. Anything that is edible is few and far in between. By the time the sun goes down, all I have found are an unopened pack of potato chips and a slightly crushed box of animal crackers tucked away in a little kid's discarded lunch box.

"You've got to be kidding me," I whisper as I paw through the lunch box's contents hours later, in the safety of a metal shipping container that is my shelter for the night. Here I am, having had to live on subpar canned good and rationed coffee for all of my life, while these people are just throwing their food out! Their whole attitude is just... ugh! Frustrated seems like the right word to describe how I'm feeling.

I nibble on a couple of the animal crackers as I watch the daily death recap. The only faces they show are of the two who died the night before: a tough-looking thirteen-year-old girl and a frightened twelve-year-old boy with the biggest, saddest brown eyes I have ever seen. Both are from District 11.

Once the reprise of the anthem finishes, I lie back down, but find that I can't sleep. The night is just as hot and humid as it is during the day. Sweat drips down my face, my neck, my back, and my arms, making the wet jumpsuit cling tightly to my body.

"So much for cloudy skies and cool weather," I grumble, plucking at the dark blue material of the suit and grimacing at how it feels against my skin. I unzip the jumpsuit and tie the arms around my waist, knotting it above the belt. I feel somewhat cooler now that I don't have to deal with long sleeves.

I wipe the sweat off my forehead, letting my fingers brush against my damp hair. The perspiration makes it spike up, like cactus needles. At least I have that going for me, the short hair. I would hate to imagine what it would be like to still have long hair and then be put in this environment.

On top of the heat, I feel so uneasy knowing that I only have one day left to find water. Less if tomorrow proves to be as hot and humid as today.

I remember once, as a little kid, watching Caesar Flickerman interview Cecelia, the District 8 girl who had just won the Hunger Games that year. When he asked her how a sweet and gentle girl such as herself could handle the horrors of the Arena, she smiled and said, "It's all about celebrating the little victories at the end of the day. It was never about hoping to see the end of the Games. I was thankful to just see another day."

I finger the knife attached to my belt and the crackers and chips I found. I should be like Cecelia, celebrating that I have managed to find food and a weapon. But I feel like I failed myself when I can't even find water, something that has been my main objective since the Games started, by my established deadline.

That night, I dream that I am running through the desert, trying to reach a beautiful oasis with a pool of clear blue water in the distance. But no matter how long or how fast I run, it remains out of reach.

I wake up on the third morning feeling like I've actually been in that desert. My skin is so hot to the touch, it's like I have a fever that is drying me out from the inside out. My skin resembles old leather that has started to crack in several places. My throat is so parched, I can't even choke down a morsel of cracker. My lips are chapped and it hurts to the touch. And I realize that it's been two days since I last needed to relieve myself.

Clambering out of the shipping container, I have to shield my eyes from the bright sun. My stomach drops as my fingers brush up against my head. My hair feels stiff and spiky. And I'm not sweating anymore. I probably stopped sweating some time during the night.

_Need water. Gotta have_ _water,_ I think. _Find water... has to be water in the Arena._

I slowly rise to my feet and start yet another trek through the endless stretch of wasteland.

* * *

"Oh come on!" I groan. I slump down on on a mound of black trash bags that are filled with something that feels soft and squishy to the touch. The wooden staff I found in a junk heap and had been using as a walking stick clatters to the ground.

How hard can it be to find water in an Arena? Most tributes tend to find a reliable source by the second day. The fact that I haven't heard any sound of cannon fire since the night before makes me think that the other thirteen must have found a water source. Or maybe they haven't. Maybe they're like me, dehydrated and desperate. After all, the most a person can last without water is three days.

Although the skin on my neck is sunburned and stings to the touch, I make an effort to lift my head up to the sky. The sun is beginning its descent into the horizon. Knowing it will be dark out within a couple of hours, I should be looking for a new hiding spot, but I just feel so tired, I don't think I can move. The hot sun beats down on me, burning my skin to a bright red color that stings to the touch. The burning in my throat feels like a fire that can't be quenched.

"Ravi... water... please," I croak. "Please... send water."

But after several minutes of waiting, there are no silver parachutes falling from the sky with my name on it.

Of course, I should have known there wouldn't be anything coming for me. Even though it's the beginning of the Games, and things would be cheaper for the mentors to send, not every tribute will get a sponsor gift. The ones who do tend to be the fan favorites: mostly Careers, but there might be a particularly beautiful or strong or overall compelling tribute from the lower Districts who will endear themselves to the Capitol.

Someone who isn't me.

I fall back onto the trash bags. The Arena is completely silent. Or so I thought at first. Then something catches my attention. I sit up, straining my ears to make sure that what I am hearing isn't just a trick on the mind.

It's running water.

Leaning heavily on my staff, I get up and hobble towards where I think the sound is coming from. The closer I get, the louder it gets. The ground underfoot turns from hard and cracked soil to mud.

When I see the river, I drop to my knees and scoop my hands into the water. It's warm, but I don't care. I greedily gulp down two mouthfuls. After not having any water for three days, I have never tasted anything more refreshing.

As I scoop up more water, I see something caught between my fingers. It's a long strip of candy pink plastic. I slowly raise my head, and what I see makes my stomach churn.

The river is polluted. Bloated plastic bags float downriver. Cans and bottles bob up and down in the murky water. The muddy river bed is lined with scraps of waterlogged paper. A single shoe floats by like a bright pink, fur trimmed boat.

Suddenly, the water in my mouth turns foul. I quickly spit out, gagging and scrapping at my tongue. But it's already too late. A dirty aftertaste fills my mouth, like I had eaten something rotten. I drop to my hands and knees, vomiting.

Nausea washes over me as I try to stand up. It's so bad, I end up collapsing and throwing up some more. It takes several tries before I can get back up.

"You imbecile!" I chastise myself. "Why didn't you check the river before drinking?" Past tributes have actually died by drinking tainted Arena water. One Hunger Games even had an acid pool that eliminated most of the competition!

So much for trying. I think I just lowered my chances at survival.

I rest along the river bank for what feels like a long time. A gut instinct tells me that this might be the only source of water in the Arena. If there are more, then those sources would be as polluted as this one. Even though I should consider filling up my canteen, the thought of drinking the water makes me feel sick.

"You've got to," I tell myself. "You don't have much of a choice."

I slowly get to my feet and start digging through the trash piles for a suitable crucible and a container to boil water in. I return to the riverbank a few minutes later with a battered charcoal brazier, some empty tin cans, and a pair of rusty tongs.

Using some newspapers, rags, and some slow-burning odds-and-ends, I start a fire using a bit of a steel rod and a rock that were lying by my side to create sparks. Once the sparks lit the kindling, I get a fire going. I fill one of the tin cans with the river water and place it over the fire, supporting it with a large piece of wire mesh to prevent it from falling into the flames.

When the water comes to a roiling boil, I get the tongs out and remove the can from the heat. I set it aside to cool and repeat the process with the other cans. Once the water cools down, I pour it into the canteen, using a strip cut from my shirt to filter out the bits of debris. Once the canteen is full, I take a sip of the water. It has a metallic aftertaste to it, but at least it's clean. It has to be after boiling it.

Although I have clean water now, I can't shake off this uneasy feeling knowing that I just drank polluted water. How sick can you get from two mouthfuls of water? It can't be that bad, but considering that this is the Arena, what I drank will probably kill me by the end of the week.

"Well, there's nothing you can do about it," I tell myself. "If you die, just know you brought it on yourself ." The best case scenario is that I just get sick for a few days, then recover. The worst is that it's so bad, it kills me. There's probably medicine in the Capitol that could cure the illness, but I doubt Ravi and Lianna will have enough funds to send me a dose.

With nothing left to do, I fix the full canteen to my waist pouch and walk on.

* * *

_A/N: I am so sorry this update took so long. I didn't mean to end up turning into a two month long wait. You guys deserve an explanation though. _

_I recently made a big move overseas and am still adjusting to my new home. The internet situation is a little iffy right now, so I am not online as much as I used to be. In the meantime, I have been writing and rewriting the upcoming chapters. I have a clear idea of how I want this story to go, so there is an end in sight._

_Thank you all so much for your support and your patience. It was a great pleasure to read all of your reviews. Again, thank you so much._


	10. Chapter 10

"By... Jove," I groan as another wave of pain rips through my stomach. I bite down on my hand, the other clutching my stomach, wishing that the pain would go away. But it gets worse as the day wears on.

Without a doubt, this was because I drank the contaminated water yesterday. But who would have known that two small handfuls could cause this much trouble? Ever since I woke up early this morning, all I've experienced were headaches, stomach pains, nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea. My insides are twisted into a thousand knots that send pulses of nauseating pain every few seconds. And my throat feels so swollen; not in the way when I have a sore throat. It's as if the glands deep in my jaw and throat have swollen to twice its size, and instead of producing saliva, it's producing bile.

Food and drink only make matters worse. I try sipping the water and eating the crackers in my pouch only to hurl it back up. The mere thought of food, from the canned baked beans and toast Dad and I would have for dinner in 5 to the succulent roasts, savory soups, and delicate pastries from the Capitol, makes me even more sick.

I remember, back when I was really small, getting so sick I couldn't keep anything down. Despite my pleas not to feed me, Dad kept urging me to drink the water and the thin vegetable soup he had prepared...

"_But Daddy," I whined, pushing away the bowl of soup in his hands, "it makes me feel worse!"_

"_I know, Firefly," Dad said, resorting to the nickname he only uses when we're alone and hasn't called me by since I was ten, when I insisted that he stop because the kids at school were making fun of me for it. He pushed the bowl back in my hands. "I know you feel like crud, but if you don't replace all those fluids, the fever will just dry you out and you'll never get better."_

I pick up my water flask and turn it over in my hands. It's about three quarters of the way full. "You need the fluids, Firefly," I croak, mimicking Dad's soft-spoken tone and his lisp as his words echo in my head, "or you'll never get better."

I uncork the flask and tip a bit of water into my mouth. The combination of the metallic taste and the bile lingering in my mouth transforms the water into a kind of foul liquid that makes me want to spit it out, but I can't knowing that it will just waste a resource that I can't replace right now. Not in my condition. Instead, squeezing my eyes shut, I force myself to choke it down, only to puke it back up when it is transformed into a quasi-chemical substance that my body can't take.

Atala's speech from that long ago day in the Training Center sounds in my head, replacing Dad's words of encouragement.

"_Everybody wants to grab a sword, but most of you will die from natural causes. 10% from infection, 20% from dehydration."_

Ten percent from infection. If my calculations were correct, then that means two of us will die from some kind of illness. I lurch forward, vomiting clear bile into a back corner of the shipping container where I am hiding. The whole place reeks of stale vomit, piss, and shit. There is no air coming in from the crack in the door or from the massive hole in the roof.

Well, here is one tribute.

Another wave of bile surges up my throat, and I collapse onto my hands and knees, gagging and retching. "Please don't let Herman see this," I whimper in between vomiting spells. "Please don't let him see me like this."

I don't want Herman to remember me for this. Not like how I remember Mother in her dying days.

When I think I can manage it, I slowly sit up and rest against my back and my head against the cool metal surface of the abandoned shipping container I had claimed as my shelter. A numbing sensation creeps up my legs and and my spine like a thousand icy spiders that fuses my lower body in its place as I sit up. There is no way I can walk, let alone crawl. If I were to venture outside of the shipping container, someone will use it as an opportunity to take me out.

No, if I want to live to see the fifth day of the Games, I need to remain in the shipping container. I lurch forward again, collapsing onto my side. My body feels like lead, and my throat and stomach burn from the bile. Never have I felt this exhausted.

As I close my eyes, I wonder if it really is worth living to see the fifth day.

* * *

When the Capitol anthem plays that night, I don't bother moving from my spot to see the recap. There isn't any point. Ever since the pair from 11, there haven't been any new deaths. While I welcome the lack of cannon fire, I start to grow worried as night falls, marking the end of the fourth day.

Kelvin is still out there.

An icy sense of dread creeps over me, slowing my heart until it can only beat every other second. I should be happy that he made it. After all, with the two of us still in the running, District 5 might actually have a chance.

But I can't bring myself to feel that way. What if we're the only two left? There have been Hunger Games that ended with the final two tributes being from the same District. These kind of showdowns always end with big emotionally distressing finales as the final two face the most sadistic choice the Capitol could give a tribute: Would you kill your partner in order to go home to your family?

Killing one's District partner is taboo in District 5. To us, there is nothing worse than murdering someone who is from your home and who shared your struggles throughout the Games. That's akin to murdering a family member or a friend. I can't even convey the absolute revulsion everyone in town felt when they watched Lianna seal her place in history as District 5's first female Victor by decapitating her partner, or when Gene Dwyer bludgeoned his partner, a redhead who sat next to me in all of our classes because her last name, Lipschitz, came after mine in the class roster, to death the year before.

I was nine when Lianna won, and my memories from that time aren't very reliable. But I do remember when Gene killed that girl. Overnight, it was as if he had become an un-person; you didn't even mention him unless you wanted to be met with furious glares from everyone around you. Honestly, I think Finnick Odair's Victory Tour marked the first, and probably only, time District 5 ever welcomed a Career Victor with open arms. No one cared that he was from an enemy District. The fact that he killed Gene was a good enough reason for us to like him.

"To any higher power that is listening," I begin, clasping my hands together in front of me and squeezing my eyes shut, "please don't let me be the one who has to kill Kelvin. Thank you."

Horrible, I have to admit. But this is the Hunger Games. Everyone is going to die eventually. It's just a matter of when it will happen. And besides, there isn't any harm in praying that you won't be the one who will have to do it, right?

* * *

The first round of cannon fire in four days sounds sometime during the mid-morning.

I wipe my mouth after another vomiting spell and lift my head, fighting the dizzying sensation that came with it, up towards the hole in the shipping container's roof. "I wonder who that was for," I mutter, before pushing the thought aside. We'll know soon enough once the recaps come in.

A few minutes later, another cannon shot goes off.

What is going on? I twist the crude earplugs deeper into my ear canals, anticipating a possible third cannon. Two cannons in a row? Something had to be up.

I hope it's a Career. Please, let it be a Career. Make them turn on each other already. Make them fight each other until one is left standing. Weaken them so that they are as vulnerable as the rest of us. Show the Capitol that their precious Careers aren't as strong as they believe.

Loud shouts and screaming follow the cannon fire, but I can't tell where they're coming from. All I know is that it's too close for comfort. Realizing that I might be in danger, I press up against the back door of the container, praying that they don't notice me through the crack in the front door.

"The door," I gasp. It's still open! Sure, it was open two, maybe three inches, someone looking in might still see me. Crawling on my hands and knees, I make my way to the front. But just as my hand brushes against the rusty metal door, more voices come.

"Shit! Where did that brat go?"

"I think I saw him running that way."

"He can't have gone far. I noticed that his leg is in a splint."

"You dudes stay here. I'll go find him."

I freeze up when I realize that it's the Careers talking. Their voices quickly come one after another, but I can still make out what they are saying, as if they are standing just outside of the container.

_Oh Jove,_ I think,_ please don't let them come near. Please don't let them come near. Please, for the love of all that is good and holy, don't let them come near. _

"I'm coming with you," says one of the Career girls.

"No, you ain't, Doris. I work alone. Besides, what's one weenie little tribute with a busted leg gonna do?"

"Wh... just let me come along, as back up. You were complaining about your hand this morning. What if you hurt yourself even more fighting this other tribute?"

"Just let her come," drawls Shine in his snooty District 1 accent. "Doris wouldn't shut up about your broken hand for days."

"Fine. But I can handle this by myself."

"Yeah, that's what you said before beating that District 10 guy in the Bloodbath. And look at how that turned out."

"Pretty well in my opinion."

Eventually, the Careers' shouting dies down, giving way to the sound of someone or something running. I crawl even further into the tunnel as the footsteps come closer.

_Don't come near here,_ I think. _Don't come near here. Just run far away from here._

Suddenly, the sound of something small rips through the air, hitting its target with a muffled thump. The tribute lets out a loud cry of pain before collapsing to the ground with a dull thud. The squelching sound of something being pulled out of the wound quickly follows, along with some muffled cursing.

My heart skips a beat when I hear the tribute talking. I swear I can recognize the voice, even if I haven't heard it in nearly a week. But I can't really be sure. Curiosity tells me to go and investigate, to confirm that the tribute is who I am thinking it is, but if the Career is still out there, then I increase my chances of getting caught.

After several minutes of hesitation, I peer through the crack, careful not enough to completely expose myself, but hopefully enough to where no one else can see me.

I let out a small gasp when I see the injured tribute.

It isn't a Career.

* * *

_A/N: Hopefully, this will mark the start of regular updates. Again, I am sorry about the delayed chapter update. I really want to thank everyone who has been reviewing, especially GeorgyannWayson and everyone in Writer's Anonymous. I really appreciate all for your feedback and support.  
_

_I also want to thank two people whose input helped me write this chapter. I don't think they will ever read this story, due to their current location and because there is limited internet access where they work. But I want to thank Jowo and Cheryl. They're Peace Corps medical officers I got the pleasure to know, and whom I consulted with on water-bourne illnesses. So, tenki ya to you both.  
_


	11. Chapter 11

It's Kelvin.

He kneels on the ground, clutching a bloody arrow in one hand while the other covers the wound it made in his left leg. His right leg is in a splint with dirty bandages wrapped around his calf and ankle. Pus oozes from the bandages, staining them a sickly greenish-yellow color that mingles with the dark red blood and the dirty brown. Old and fresh blood stains his coveralls, but considering the sheer amount of it, I don't know how much of it is his.

Kelvin tosses the arrow aside and struggles to get up. But as he gets to his feet, he loses his footing and crashes to the ground. He lets out a loud cry, tears streaming down his eyes as he tries again. Suddenly, he turns from the fifteen-year-old who drove me crazy in the Capitol to a vulnerable boy in need of help.

I reach for my staff, ready to toss it out of the container and to his side when a booming voice stops me.

"What's up, Little Dude?"

Ulysses steps into view. I press my back up against the wall, careful not to disturb the open door. It's wide enough that I can see what is going on through the crack. Kelvin's face blanches into the color of spoiled milk. One hand is still clamped over the fresh wound in his leg while his free hand reaches out for the arrow he had tossed aside just seconds ago.

"I thought we missed you in that fight, Little Dude," Ulysses continues, casually strolling up to Kelvin as if he was an old friend.

"My name..." sputters Kelvin, "is... not... Little Dude."

He tries to scramble back, moving awkwardly on his two injured legs and one free hand. But Ulysses just chuckles as he continues toward him.

"Well, everyone is 'dude' to me, bro."

"I'm not your 'bro' either."

Kelvin lunges for the arrow, his stubby fingers wrapping around the narrow, silver shaft. He brings the arrow out in front of him, trying to stab it into Ulysses' heavily muscled calf, but Ulysses just steps back, laughing. Undeterred, Kelvin lunges at him again.

Ulysses deflects the blow, knocking the arrow out of Kelvin's hands. It rolls several feet away, too far for him to run and get it in time. I clamp my hands over my mouth, willing myself to breathe steadily. My heart is thundering in my chest. That feeling of dread returns.

With his condition, there is no way Kelvin is going to make it out of this alive.

"Really, dude, an arrow? Man, no wonder you guys never make it far in these Games! How many Victors does your bogus District have again?"

"Four, and we're better than your lame-o District, Barnacle Brains," snarls Kelvin. He lunges at Ulysses, his hands tightly balled into fists. Ulysses tightens his own hand into a fist and sends it flying into Kelvin's jaw.

I flinch at the sickening crunch Ulysses' punch made as he dislocated Kelvin's jaw. Kelvin crashes back onto the ground, sobbing as his other hand clutches his swollen jaw. Ulysses crouches down beside him, cradling his head in his big beefy hands.

"Look, I hate to have to do this to you, Little Dude. But face it, you guys never stand a chance. Oh, and for the record, I don't like it when people call District 4 'lame'."

Realizing what was about to happen, I dig my fingers even deeper into my ears, squeezing my eyes shut. But nothing: not the ear plugs, not the thick metal shielding me from the outside world, not the distance between me and them, could buffer what was about to happen.

The world goes silent.

Then there is a long, loud, sickening crunch as Ulysses breaks Kelvin's neck. A cannon fires moments later.

And with that, Kelvin Dugald was no more.

* * *

When I open my eyes, I find that Ulysses is still lingering at the place where he killed Kelvin. Bile rises up in my throat as I watch him crouch down by Kelvin's body. He's already dead! Leave him alone already! I want to do something: scream, run and kick him, bite him, jab that arrow into his throat and make him choke on his own blood. But instead, I am left paralyzed and unable to stop whatever Ulysses plans on doing to him next.

Some Careers have this sick little habit where they take trophies from the tributes they kill. Most of the time, they'll take whatever token the deceased brought into the Arena. But for others, a token isn't enough. A couple of years ago, there was this Career from District 2 who cut off the right ears of his kills, strung them on a length of string, and wore it as a necklace. He got his comeuppance when the bacteria and germs from the festering ears infected a bug bite on his neck, ensuring that he got a long and painful death.

Instead, Ulysses picks up the arrow Kelvin tried to defend himself with. He glares at the arrow, then over his shoulder as he shouts, "Dammit, Doris! I didn't need your help!"

Doris calmly walks up behind him. She slings her bow over her right shoulder, holding her head up high as she stares down at her partner. "What are you whining about? At least you killed him."

More footsteps follow, and the remaining four Careers run up to join the pair from 4.

"Did you get him?" asks the District 2 girl.

"See for yourself," implores Ulysses.

Shine walks up to Kelvin's body and delivers a swift kick to his ribs. Kelvin's head, which is hanging at a unnatural angle, flops around with each kick, as if the bones in his neck are gone. I have to resist the urge to run out of the shipping unit and pummel Shine until his stupidly handsome face is so disfigured, the Capitol won't be able to fix him up again. "How's that seven from training looking now, Hotshot?"

Tiara circles the body, like a beautiful blonde vulture. "You guys do realize what this means, right?"

"Yeah," hoots the District 2 boy. "Thirteen down, nine to go!"

The Careers congratulate each other for making it this far. They hoot and holler, cheering and bumping fists or giving each other high fives.

"Besides us, who is even left standing?" asks Shine.

"Um... the pair from 7, the dude from 12, and the chick who looks like a dude from 5," replies Ulysses, closing his eyes and ticking off the numbers with his massive, sausage-like fingers.

"Well, that's not too bad," shrugs Tiara.

Doris remains silent. She stares down at Kelvin, fingering a string of pink shell beads in her hand and mouthing something to herself. Then I realize that Doris hasn't said a word since the other Careers arrived on the scene.

"Hey, you alright?" The District 2 girl steps up and places a hand on Doris' shoulder. She tenses up at the other girl's touch, but doesn't give any other indication that she felt it.

"That's not too bad," repeats Doris under her breath. She gets louder the more she repeats herself. "That's not too bad. That's... not... too... bad. Oh, for the love of Poseidon! How can you guys even stand to celebrate right now!"

"What's there to be worried about?" asks Shine. "C'mon, it's not like we've had any real competition in these Games."

"Yeah," Tiara agrees. "No offense, Dory, but you've been looking really stressed out lately."

"Oh, really? I haven't noticed." Doris grips her dark red hair in her hands, squeezing her eyes shut, and taking several long, deep breaths. After a minute, she straightens up, untangles her fingers from her curly hair, and turns to face the others. "But seriously, I don't see why we should celebrate. We haven't even reached the Final Eight."

"But we will soon enough," says Shine. "Face it, District 12 is a joke. They're always dead by the first week. And that District 5 girl, if we can call her one, has one of the lowest training scores out of everyone here. I bet I can take them out with one swing of a sword, bl..."

"Boring," interrupts the District 2 girl. "No one wants to see you decapitate a tribute. Where's the fun in that? No, you know what we should do? How about we capture of one those tributes, and then I can bash their brains until there's nothing left."

As she is talking, the District 2 girl unhooks the club swinging from her belt and smacks the barrel against the palm of her hand to emphasize that she means every word. I shrink back into the shadows. My heart races at the thought of that brute taking a club to my head. _Please don't let them find me,_ I think. _ I don't want to have my brains bashed in. I need my brain. Don't let them take that away from me._

"The Capitol seems to like that whole 'the bloodier, the better' schtick when it comes to offing the other tributes. Remember those chicken and cheese rolls the District 1 mentors sent us the morning after the Bloodbath? You know, the one with the note that said, 'Well Done. Keep It Up'?" finished the District 2 girl. "Imagine what they'll send us next once we finish off 5, 12, and two 7's."

"If they want a fight, and I mean a right fight, wait until we get those District 7 tributes," says the District 2 boy. "I'd like to show those little tree huggers that they aren't as high and mighty as they think they are. And I hope they have axes. I haven't fought someone who got their hands on a good weapon yet, and I could really use a challenge."

"Well, if you guys are done boasting about how you're going to off the rest of the competition, I'd like to leave before the hovercraft comes," says Doris. "Poseidon knows we've got more than enough things stinking up this place."

The Careers turn and are just about ready to leave when Ulysses doubles back. "Where do you think you're going? We've already got supplies at the Cornucopia," Tiara shouts as Ulysses begins searching through Kelvin's pack and belt. As he rummages through Kelvin's effects, he tosses out various supplies until he stops, grins, then gets up. He runs back to them, clutching a white ball with red stitching on the sides.

"A baseball? Seriously? You doubled back to get that piece of crap?" asks Shine.

"What? I wanted a souvenir," says Ulysses, shrugging as he sprints towards the Careers. When they are reunited, they take off running down the path on which they came and leave me behind with only Kelvin's body for company.

My mind races at a thousand miles per hour, trying to process everything that has just happened. But my mind seems to be all over the place, unable to find a place to start. My brain is spinning at a dizzying pace without a means to stop. That lightheaded feeling I experienced at the Training Center's rooftop garden returns. The ground gives out from under me, but instead of falling into some dark abyss, my body crashes to the ground with a dull thud. I can't find it in me to get back up. It's as if an invisible scalpel has severed every nerve below my neck, paralyzing me. A dark, foggy sensation clouds my eyesight and dulls my mind.

I watch in a daze as a hovercraft materializes in mid air, looming over the valley where Kelvin died. A massive metal claw is carefully lowered down, slowly opening up the closer it reaches the ground. The last thing I see before the darkness engulfs me is of the claw grabbing hold of Kelvin's body in its talons before slowly airlifting him out of the Arena.

* * *

A booming fanfare of trumpets and drums rips through my dark and silent world. I sit bolt upright, only to lie back down when I feel the onset of a splitting headache. Taking a quick look around my surroundings, I realize that I am still in the abandoned shipping container. There is an overwhelming stench of stale vomit in the air. I quickly pull up the scrap of fabric tied around my neck over my nose and mouth.

Before I can even figure out how long I've been out, the recaps begin. And the first face I see leaves me feeling like I have been shocked by a Peacekeeper's stun baton that has been cranked to the highest voltage.

Kelvin Dugald smiles down on me from his place high up in the night sky. He lingers up there, like a constellation, for a moment before his picture flickers away and is replaced by the faces of the District 9 boy and the District 10 girl who also died that day.

When I see his face up there, it feels as if all the air has been sucked out of the shipping container. Everything inside hurts, like I've been sucker punched by the entire Career pack. My mind goes blank, unwilling to take in and process what is happening.

Kelvin can't be dead. He can't be. He just can't. He got a seven in training, for cripes sake! He managed to survive this long in the Games. He can last a few more days. By Jove, how could this happen?

Then all comes flooding back, what happened today. Kelvin running, only to be taken down by an arrow. Ulysses cornering him, punching him in the face before snapping his neck. Shine kicking him in the ribs. The Careers boasting about what they're going to do with the other surviving tributes before moving on. And all the while, I'm stuck inside the container, feet away from what was happening. I could have saved Kelvin, and I didn't.

I try shutting my eyes so I don't have to see the faces of the dead tributes. But when I do, it's only so I can be treated to a replay of Kelvin's murder. I quickly open my eyes, and not even in the waking world can I escape what happened. That sickening crunch from when Kelvin's neck was broken echoes in my head. The more I dwell on it, the louder it gets. Sleep is impossible. And even if I could sleep, I don't want to. Not if it means having nightmares where I have to watch Kelvin die over and over again.

That night, a thick layer of smokey gray clouds rolls in, obscuring the stars and moon and shrouding the Arena in darkness. I lay awake for hours, staring up at the clouds and wondering if the darkness is meant to show respect for Kelvin. Maybe it's just a coincidence, but the lack of light here reminds me of how District 5 mourns our fallen tributes.

We don't really have any official way of mourning a death. The higher ups running District 5 believe that supplying power to the rest of the country should be the number one priority. Because most people work in the power plant, which must be manned at all hours or else it will go into meltdown, families aren't given much time to mourn. They'll get a day off to attend the funeral, but that's it.

Even though we are supposed to put on a brave face and move on, District 5 still finds little ways to mourn our dead. When our tributes die, every family dims their lights. The same goes for the street lamps that line the main avenues in town. For two nights, District 5 goes dark in remembrance of the two kids who will never come home.

It's not much, but it's better than nothing. What the rest of District 5 will do tonight is more than what I can ever do for him. I couldn't save Kelvin, I couldn't stop Ulysses from taking his token, nor could I give him a proper sendoff. I should have saved him. There must have been something I could have done to save him. After all, he was from 5. He was one of the few links I have with home, and now it has been severed.

"Oh for the love of... there's nothing you could have done to stop this," I chastise myself. "There's nothing you could have done. There is nothing you could have done." I repeat the words, hoping to ingrain them into my brain. But those words bounce off a mind that won't process them.

By Jove, what is wrong with me? How can I feel this awful for a boy I didn't even like in the first place? This is the Hunger Games! Everyone is going to die. Kelvin Dugald was never going to be a Victor. I knew that the moment his name was called up at the Reaping. He was just a scared kid who spent his days living it up in the Capitol. On top of that, his leg wound was showing signs of infection. Even if he did survive, it would only be a matter of time before the infection killed him.

"There is no way he could have survived, Ada," I mutter. "And had you rushed out to get him, Ulysses would have killed you too."

The more I think about what had happened, the more I realize that it's true. Didn't Ulysses arrive just as I was about to toss my walking stick out to Kelvin? Had I been a little quicker, he would have caught me. For a fleeting moment, my mind flashes to a scenario where Ulysses is dragging me out of the shipping container before smashing my head into the ground while Kelvin is screaming in terror. I quickly banish that thought. I've already seen more than my fair share of the horrifying today. I don't need to make up my own.

Still, no matter how much I try to justify Kelvin's death, I feel guilty. He's dead, and I'm not. And there is nothing I could have done to stop it. Even if I did, he was a goner anyway. Although I know this to be true, I still can't accept that Kelvin Dugald is gone.

I look up to the sky, hoping to see a silver parachute floating down from above. I don't expect a sponsor gift. But what I do want is a note from Ravi telling me that this wasn't my fault. It doesn't even have to say that this wasn't my fault. It could tell me that it's okay to feel guilty or upset over losing him or that I'm going to be alright. Just something, anything that helps me to keep on going because I don't know if I have it in me to last a few more days. Not when there are nine other tributes still out there and I am so sick, I can't keep anything down and I can't get up without feeling dizzy. I just want some kind of reassurance from him.

After an hour of waiting, my heart sinks. There is nothing coming. Great... just great. "What good are you for anyway?" I snap. Some mentor he is. A note. Just a simple note from Ravi. That is all I want right now. Is that really too much of a hassle to send?

I curl up on my side, biting down on my lip as I feel another wave of stomach pains hit me. Tears begin streaming down my face. Then when it feels like I can't take it anymore, I break down sobbing. Everything that has just happened comes crushing down on me.

"I... I want my dad," I gasp burying my face in my arms. I break down even more when I realize that I will never get to see him or Herman again. But it doesn't stop me from calling out their names. "I want my dad... I want Herman... I want... I... I need... someone... I don't want to be alone anymore... Please... I don't want to die alone."

Exhaustion creeps over me like a shadow. Then darkness. Then nothing at all except for a mere whisper that lingers on my lips.

"I need you, Herman."

* * *

_A/N: First off let me just say, Day 5 has really kicked Ada's ass. And I'm sorry to say that this is not going to get any easier for her in the later chapters. _

_I think I should explain myself for the last part of this chapter in regards to the massive out of character moment Ada experiences. I actually based her freak out on something that had happened in my own life. No, no one was murdered in front of the person involved. But let's just say that the thing that happened put a lot of stress on a certain individual who shares a few similar personality with Ada. And let's just say it involved a lot of crying, near-mental breakdowns, and the person saying things that they wouldn't normally say. So, there is some real-life basis for what happens to her in the end of this chapter. But if it's not working, I'm willing to go back and reedit the passage._

_I really want to thank my readers and my reviewers for their support. Especially everyone in Writer's Anonymous and Reviews Lounge, Too. You guys are great and I really appreciate all that you've done._


	12. Chapter 12

_Screeek..._

I slowly raise my head as the shrill whine of a rusty metal door rouses me from sleep. My eyes flutter open, squinting against the harsh moonlight that suddenly fills the room. Through a hazy stupor, I can make out a tall figure standing at the door, but think nothing of it as I sink back onto the ground. Every single part of me feels like it is tied down with lead weights, my brain liquified into a thick and hazy slush. Before I know it, my eyes slide shut and I begin to drift back into darkness.

A soft hand strokes my head. I crack an eye open to find the figure crouched down beside me. I squint, trying to make out a face, but it's obscured by the long hair that hangs in its face like a tangled, ratty curtain. Once my eyes start to adjust to the dim surroundings, I take notice of its features. Specifically its red curls, which shine in the moonlight like a coil of copper wire. There is only one person I know with hair that long and that red.

"Herman?" I whisper. No. This shouldn't be happening. Herman is back in District 5.

Am... am I going crazy? Or dying? Or both? And if so, is this my brain's way of comforting me in my last moments? But the warm touch of his hand as his thumb strokes my cheek feels real. No, this can't be a hallucination if I can feel it. Closing my eye again, I push the question aside. At this point, I don't care anymore. Herman is here. And... and if it really is my time... well, at least I got to see him for one last time.

The ends of his long hair brush across my face, tickling my cheek as he leans in. My eyes prickle. "I'm sorry," I whimper. "I'm so sorry that I gave up. Her... Herman, p-p-please... please forgive me."

A warm breath blows across my ear, followed by a harsh whisper. "Apology not accepted."

Before I can process what I just heard, he grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head up so that I may get a good last look at my traitor friend. Herman leers at me for a fleeting moment before his face morphs into that of Doris, the arrogant sea queen from District 4.

My heart drums against my ribcage at a frantic pace, my breath catching in my throat when I realize how much Doris resembles my Herman. With their wild red curls, tan skin and freckles, and earthy green eyes, they could be siblings. "You know, I think we should take this outside," she says, narrowing her cold green eyes. "Your precious boyfriend will want to see this."

She marches me out of the shipping container, one hand gripping my hair, the other wrapped tightly around my arm. When we get outside, she throws me to the ground. Blood begins to fill my mouth as I bite down on my lower lip and the inside of my cheek. Before I can get to my feet and run, she stomps on my back, pinning me in place. A burst of white hot pain surges down my spine as it shatters under her weight. I let out a scream that dies down into a strangled cry.

Something in my head just snaps, and it's like I suddenly lose all inhibition. My sobbing turns into snickering... then chuckling... and then... then there is full blown laughter as if Doris has just cracked the funniest joke I have ever heard.

Doris kicks me onto my back. She looms above me; her mouth hangs open and her eyes wide with shock. What is wrong with her? She should be happy! One down- nine left to go. Keep up this killing spree, and she'll be back in District 4 in no time with a real crown on her head. "What's wrong with you?" she snaps.

I giggle in reply. Doris sways in place, gripping a dagger and looking like she doesn't know what to do next. I want to scream at her to finish me off so we can end this stupid game once and for all, but the only thing coming out of my mouth is more laughter. After what feels like hours, she finally comes back to her senses. She straddles me. The ends of her copper red hair brush against my face as she leans in. The cold, sharp edge of a dagger bites into my throat. But I keep on cackling.

"One down," she mutters as she grits her teeth, digging the blade into my throat. "Nine more left to go..."

* * *

I wake up just as Doris slits my throat. Laughter echoes in the shelter, and it suddenly dawns on me that it's my laughter. Frantic, I clamp a hand over my mouth, biting down on my teeth as I retreat to a corner, my crude little knife drawn and at the ready. A cold sweat forms on my brow as I quickly scan the room.

Oh dear Tesla, how loud was I laughing? For hours afterward, I sit in that stinking shipping container in a state of panic, my ears peeled for the telltale signs of an intruder and my knife at the ready. My free hand goes from my mouth to my necklace, twisting the silky ribbon between my fingers and raking my thumb across the house keys' jagged metal teeth.

But nothing happens.

Other than the swarm of flies congregating in the shadowy far end of the container, I am completely and utterly alone. The knife falls to the ground with a clatter as I take a deep breath, drawing my knees up to my chest as I rock in place. After dropping the knife, my free hand moves up to my throat. Other than some scabs, bug bites, and a rash that is slowly creeping up from my shoulder, there are no other wounds on my neck.

_It's just a bad dream_, I reassure myself, continuing to feel my neck, making sure that there aren't any gaping gashes. _It was all just a really, really bad dream. _

Although the nightmare quickly fades from memory like a wisp of smoke, there is one part that leaves me shaking in place just thinking about it. It's not Doris, though there are plenty of things about her that scare me. No, it was the laughter- my laughter.

I grit my teeth just thinking about that damned sound. Is... is that going to be me? Right when I am about to die, am I just going to break down and start laughing? I shudder at the thought of being turned into some cackling crazy. Sure, there are tributes who have gone completely bonkers in the Arena. The District 2 guy who started wearing human ears around his neck comes to mind, but he didn't live, just like the other nutjobs before and after him.

That icy feeling of dread washes over me again just thinking about how that will to be me soon._ Keep this all up, and you'll be one of those crazies that those talking heads in the Capitol will remember for years to come!_

I continue to fiddle with the house key necklace strung around my neck while the other hand begins to flap uncontrollably. Realizing that it's daylight, and Dad could be watching, I shove my wringing hand into my pants pocket, twisting the thick twill fabric between my fingertips. Dad didn't like it when I wrung my hands; he once said that people will treat me weird if I did it in public. We even worked on curbing the habit and replacing it with another coping mechanism, like fiddling with a piece of fabric, if I get too overwhelmed. Up until now, this tic hasn't come up in years.

_There, you can't be crazy, _I think. _You know when to stop the hand flapping. You knew when to stop laughing. And you haven't resorted to wearing body parts as jewelry. You can't be crazy if you can still think straight._

Slowly, I shift in place and remove my hand. It stopped flapping, and I smile in relief. _See? N__ow that you calmed down, you really ought to consider leaving this place. _

* * *

It's half an hour later and I am standing at the rusted metal door of the shelter, peering out into the wasteland that lay beyond it. Other than a couple of sea gulls pecking at the supplies Ulysses left behind when he searched Kelvin's body yesterday, the field is empty. _Come on, let's just get whatever Kelvin left behind and go already.  
_

I know I should be scavenging for the remaining supplies, but I can't find it in me to make that first step out of the shelter. What if I go out and get them, only to come up and find one of them pointing a weapon at me? Or, worse, someone takes the opportunity to ambush me while I'm crouched down and packing up his things? With the wide, open plain, and the mountain range of trash that can serve as another tributes vantage point, I'll be a target.

And if I made it through that without incident, where will I go? Situated before me are three pathways that disappear into the mountains of waste. For a moment, it feels like the first day of the Games when I saw the paths that fed into the Arena from the Cornucopia. This time, however, I have no idea where these new roads will lead me. Any one of them could lead me straight into a conflict that? I can't get out of.

How far am I from the Cornucopia? Being trapped in an Arena consisting of endless fields and mountains of garbage, you lose all sense of direction. For all I know, I could be running into a trap, back to the Cornucopia, or straight into the pointy end of some Career's sword.

I wrack my brains, trying to remember which direction the Career pack took off in yesterday, but all I get is a vision of motionless Kelvin slumped over on the ground, his head twisted in a sickeningly unnatural angle. I immediately shake my head. _Dammit, don't even think about that. For right now, just focus on getting out of here without running into one of them. _Yet the more I think about which road I should take, the less confident I feel.

_You're over-thinking things. Just pick a path, any path... there's only a one in three chance you'll run into danger. Besides, the Careers are still in a pack. It's not like they suddenly disbanded after one night._

Yeah, they were a pack yesterday, but that doesn't mean they'll still be one today. Something could have happened during the night that caused them to split. Maybe the Gamemakers sicced a flock of genetically modified sea gulls with razor sharp beaks and talons so that they would split up and be unable to find each other again. Or, more plausibly, someone realized that they'll be offing each other once all the tributes from the outer Districts are gone.

Doris seems to get the idea. With the way she snapped at the others when they were celebrating, she must have realized that she will be in danger the longer she stays with them. The whole spiel about the top eight could be a cover so that she can leave without further endangering herself.

I slam the door shut. Cripes, what if she already left? The odds of encountering one of them jumps to two-thirds. My breath catches in my throat, heart thundering when I realize that with Doris out there, alone and without five other tributes to hinder her, my nightmare is getting closer to reality.

Although the water illness that has plagued me for the last few days has since passed, my stomach churns at the thought of waking up to find Doris looming over me, dagger pressed against my throat and her coppery red hair clouding my vision to the point where the last thing I see will be her face and those icy green eyes. My knees buckle and I collapse onto all fours, gagging.

That's when the smell hits me. It's a thick, nauseating stench that fills up the shelter like a cloud of toxic gas. Once again, I readjust the fabric filter, but it's not enough to block out the odor, no doubt caused by the accumulation of waste in the back of the container and aggravated by the Arena's sweltering weather.

What am I going to do? Here is safe. They haven't found me yet, but I'll be sicker the longer I stay inside and breathe in the rancid air. If I go outside and try to find a new hiding spot, someone will find me and kill me.

My eyes look up at the rusty hole eating away at the ceiling. The mossy green corner of another shipping container stacked on top of it looms overhead. A spark goes off in my mind when I remember that there are several shipping containers here, several of which are piled on top of each other like a tower made out of a child's building blocks. Climbing up the container to get to the mossy green one on top will be a hassle, but it's doable. Once I'm up in that container, I might have a chance at surviving this ordeal. All I have to do is lay low and keep out of sight. Then I'll let everyone else duke it out. Maybe, once it's down to the final two, I can just drop down on the unsuspecting tribute and stab out their brain with my knife. And... boom! I'll finally go back to District 5.

I grin broadly to myself just thinking about it. _ Maybe Dad was right when he said that all I need is my brain to survive. If this works, then I can actually go home to him. But first, I need to figure out how to get up to the roof._

Ideas begin to unfold by the dozens as I shut my eyes and began to mentally scroll through my options, figuring out which one will allow me to climb to the top containers undetected.

_I need a grappling hook_, I think. Something, anything that will latch onto the side and allow me to scale the side, but I can remove quickly without leaving a hint that I was here. Making one shouldn't be too difficult. All I need is some rope and some metal rods that I can fashion into a multi-pronged hook. But what to fasten them together with? I don't have access to a welder, and duct tape can only do so much. Maybe if I find a piece of hollowed out metal, like a curtain rod, that will do the trick. No... that's ridiculous. Unless the curtain rod was made out of iron, the prongs will snap the moment I try to support my weight on it. What I need is something strong. Something like an anch...

"Cripes!" I snarl. A burning sensation flares up in my hand, and I have to resist the urge to vomit again when I finally tear my eyes away from the ceiling. A fly with a shiny emerald green thorax and bulging amber eyes sits on top of the large, red welt swelling up on the back of my hand. I swat the fly away, but not before the pain returns, this time on the back of my neck. Its incessant buzzing fills my head as I try to swat that little pest away. But it just keeps coming back for more.

That's when it hits me, why this bug will not leave me alone. _Oh cripes,_ I think, body seizing up while my heart and mind are racing, _it's a Mutt infestation._

Then, as if on cue, the flies begin to swarm me.

* * *

**A/N: **

**So, what did you guys think of the nightmare? In actuality, I had never really planned it. The way it came about was because I drew up this Careers line up to get an idea of what the Career tributes looked like, and then realized that Doris looked a bit like Herman. Then things sort of fell into place from there. However, after a few chapters that mentioned that Ada was suffering from these nightmares since she was Reaped, it was fun to actually write her going through one.**

**I'm really sorry that it took this long to post the new chapter. Needless to say, I really appreciate your patience and support. And to my guest reviewer, I hope you continue. **

**Just for the record, after reading countless reviews wishing to see this happen, I'm sad to say that, no matter how much she deserves it, Ravi will never hit Lianna. His mother made sure her son grew up to treat any woman in his life right. **

**Fun facts**

** Originally, I was going to end this chapter with Ada on the receiving end of a roach infestation. However, I changed it to flies after hearing a really gruesome story about a botfly attack that a friend of mine, who is a recent Peace Corps volunteer stationed in Sierra Leone, claims to have happened to another volunteer. But we'll get more into that in the next chapter...**


	13. Chapter 13

I burst through the container's rusted metal doors and into the clearing, tripping over the threshold in the process. For one agonizing moment, I land on my toes, arms flung to the sides and spread out as I am launched into a precarious balancing act. The buzzing grows louder and closer as I begin to topple over. Thinking that this is finally my end, I close my eyes and brace myself for impact.

Instead I stumble forward and regain my footing. Then, without any hesitation, I break into a run, hoping to evade the flies as I disappear into the mountains of detritus. But as soon as I begin to sprint down the narrow alleyway, I hear that blaring drone close in on me. A pounding tempo in my head amplifies that wretched din, compelling me to run faster.

Eventually the muscles in my legs begin to burn and ache. A searing pain erupts in my side and continues to creep up my body until it inflames my lungs. My breaths are reduced to short, ragged gasps. Eventually, my head is filled with my heart's erratic staccato, deafening me to all other noise.

I keep my eyes peeled for a place to hide: a tunnel... a drain pipe... a car chassis... an oil drum... anything. But instead, the walls close in on me, forming a passage that is so narrow, my shoulders brush against the sides. It is impossible to see what is ahead because the walls are high enough to block out the sun.

Something sharp bites into my arm, digging its way deep beneath my skin and dragging itself along the further I run. I let out a gasp, only to realize that I can't suck in another breath. It's as if my lungs have shriveled up into nothing. That constricting sensation I experienced on Reaping Day returns with a vengeance, tightening its grip around my ribcage.

My brain begins to spin at a nauseatingly rapid rate. My legs feel boneless, causing me to trip and stumble through the maze. My vision turns dark and foggy and everything seems to blur together until a burst of bright sunlight suddenly greets me, blinding me. Then, suddenly, I realize that I can't feel anything underfoot.

When I can crack my eyes open, any semblance of a scream immediately lodges in my throat when I see the massive lake spread out below me. Grabbing hold of a jutting piece of debris from one of the mountains bordering the lake is futile; I am so far away from any ledge that the only way to escape is to go down.

The only thing that comes to mind as I plummet into the lake is of how I don't want to land on one of the trash island with the sharp odds and ends jutting out of it. Oh sweet Tesla, that will really suck.

The icy cold water envelopes me as I sink several feet into the murky depths. Fetid liquid floods my nose and my gaping mouth before the panic takes hold. Never mind the garbage patches; I don't want to drown in this stinking cesspool! Using what's left of my strength, I kick my way back to the surface. As soon as my head breaches the surface, I quickly spit out the water, gasping for air as I paddle my way back to shore. When I feel solid ground beneath my hands and knees, I crawl up a ways before collapsing onto my back.

Every single bit of me hurts like nothing I have ever experienced before. There doesn't seem to be one part that hasn't been battered, bruised, bitten, aching, or water-logged. The rash on my shoulder flares up, but my arms are so heavy, I can't lift them to scratch it away. My head is throbbing so badly, I have to shut my eyes because the sunlight only makes it worse. Cripes, I can't even breathe without feeling a sharp, prickling sensation course through my chest.

And then there is the exhaustion. For someone who just survived not one, but two ordeals in one day, I don't feel like a survivor. I feel like someone who has just received the biggest beating in her life. There is nothing I want more than to sleep off the pain for the next decade.

Thankfully, I don't have to deal with the pain for very long as I quickly slip into unconsciousness.

* * *

The next time I wake up, it's on a rocky shore with the scummy, gray-green waters gently lapping around my legs and waist. The sun is beginning to rise over the peaks of trash looming overhead. It's difficult to tell how long I was out: I slept through the death recap, if there was any. Maybe a day, maybe more. Honestly, I have no idea.

I sit up, wincing as I stretch out my limbs and my back before unlacing my boots and taking off my socks to let them dry in the sun. Shivers run up my legs as the cold and clammy skin is exposed to the chilly early morning air. The sight of the mottled black and blue bruises, the swollen and inflamed gashes peeking through the tears in my jumpsuit, and the blistering rash on my shoulder that has spread to my arms and hands churns my stomach. I can't bring myself to check my reflection in the lake. I can only imagine that my face looks as horrible as the rest of me. It's a miracle that my glasses even manage to survive the ordeal: there aren't any new scratches or cracks on the lenses and they sit on my face just fine.

After cleaning off my glasses with a corner of my shirt, I make a supply check. The duct tape, the bit of steel I used to start that fire, and the canteen are still attached to my belt. However, the staff and knife are long gone, presumably left behind at the shipping container. The crackers are a soggy mess. And I can't find that rag I was using as a makeshift respirator.

Not that I was going to replace it anyway. In the span of over five days, I think I've become accustomed to the stench. My sense of appetite is long gone; I can't even think about food without feeling nauseous anymore. Water is also a problem. I have to force myself to choke down what's left in my canteen before refilling it with the lake water that I have to boil and filter for it to be drinkable.

Then I set out to make a weapon to replace the one that I had lost. By the early afternoon, I manage to piece together three new replacements. The first is a sort of quasi-knife consisting of a bunch of razor blades tied onto an old comb that is missing several teeth. There is also a whip constructed out of a piece of wood attached to a sparkly purple shoelace with a bolt weight tied to the tip and more razor blades tied along the width.

Then there's the spear. When I found the remains of a flag pole with a spiked cap, I was going to turn it into another staff, but then realized that if I can smack my attacker over the head with it, then it could work as a long range weapon. As an added measure, I duct tape a length of sharp metal to the other end to serve as a makeshift blade.

With my new weapons in tow, I set out to leave the lake. I don't know how many of us are left, but considering I am standing on the shore of a major water source, I can't take my chances here.

* * *

Hiking up one of the garbage alps proves to be a bigger challenge than expected. My legs are so sore, I have to stop and take a breather ever few minutes. The trash shifts underfoot as I move and gives out if I put too much weight on an unstable patch. I eventually lose track of how many times I have nearly fell down the mountain. Small cuts begin to appear on my palms from where I accidentally grabbed some sharp edge or broken end, as well as a large gash on my knee when I tripped and fell on a cinder block.

I can't remember how many times I have stopped and pleaded for Ravi to send down a first-aid kit, some ointment, even a roll of bandages. With these conditions, these wounds will be infected by morning! But just like that night after Kelvin died, nothing happens. The only thing I can do is to patch up the cuts with strips torn from the sleeves of my jumpsuit and trudge on.

By the late afternoon, I reach the summit and can now clearly see the full extent of the Arena mapped out before me. I crouch down and peer over the edge to find an infinite sea of peaks made out of the finest trash the Capitol has to offer. The shiny gold surface and curved tail of the Cornucopia sits on my far right with one of the pathways leading up to it situated right below me. A plume of white campfire smoke wafts into the air. Judging by how much of it I can see, I gauge that I am about a mile or two away from the Cornucopia and the remaining Careers who chose to make camp there.

If I have any chance of surviving any longer, I need to put as much distance between me and them before nightfall. Hopefully by then, I'll have found a new hiding spot for the night.

I begin to slowly inch my way down the mountainside on all fours. The trek down is worse because of the dangers the unstable surface poses. The debris shifts and gives out if I put any more weight on it, causing me to slide several feet before I can grab hold on a jutting piece of refuse. The more I scale down, the steeper the mountain gets.

_Just one step at a time,_ I think as I gingerly crawl down, testing the ground underneath with my foot before setting my weight on it, gripping the wall for support. Several times, I stop and scan the area, praying that I don't spot another tribute. The last thing I want is to reach the base of the mountain, and then find myself facing the remaining Career pack, pointing their weapons at me. Or, worse, Doris sees me and tries to shoot me with her arrows.

I freeze up, gripping the remains of a broken floor lamp, ears peeled for the tell-tale whistling of an arrow piercing through the air. But all remains quiet in the Arena, save for my heart's frantic thumping.

And then the bloodcurdling scream that echoes through out the Arena.

The scream rings in my ears as I let go of the lamp. Before I know it, I am tumbling down the rest of the way, my eyes shut and my arms flung up to protect my face as jagged bits of scrap bite and tear into my body.

There must have been a steep drop-off or something because the next thing I know, I am lying face down on the hard-packed earth, coughing and sputtering as I spit out bits of dirt. My ribs ache something awful as I struggle to regain my breath. I bite down on my lower lip as I roll onto my back, facing the clear blue sky fringed by a fuzzy gray border.

No matter how many times I blink my eyes, my vision remains blurry. _No_, I think when it dawns on me that there is something horribly wrong. _No, no, no... this can't be happening._ My hands reach up and feel around my face, only to realize that my glasses are gone, probably knocked off my face when I fell.

I scramble onto my hands and knees, frantically pawing at the dirt as I search for my glasses, cursing the genius who approved the order to ship only the glasses with the chunky brown or black plastic frames to District 5. It's impossible to find them when my sight is reduced to a haze of misshapen brown and grey forms.

_Just leave them, _that nagging mental voice scream, _get out of here before someone finds you. _ I shake my head, mouthing out a mantra of no's. I can't. I need my glasses now more than ever. This isn't District 5, where I can navigate the town without them because I memorized the layout years ago. This is the Arena, where any mistake you make will be your last and where your weaknesses will be your downfall.

A flickering bit of light on my left catches my eye. Without a second thought, I lunge for it, hoping that maybe the lens caught a bit of the light and is reflecting back at me, signalling me to their whereabouts.

Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the brief flash of light is gone. I collapse onto my stomach, arm reaching out and trying to grasp for a pair of glasses that were no longer there. Instead of feeling the familiar thick plastic frame, the tips of my fingers brush against the rough leather shell of a steel-toed boot caked with a weeks worth of dirt and grime.

"Do these, by any chance, happen to be yours?" chimes a honeyed voice with a lilting District 4 accent.

* * *

_Author's note: _

_Edit 11/20/14: I made some major revisions, some taken by reviewer comments and one major one for the ending because I wasn't really happy with the original chapter ending. I hope you don't mind, though for next time, I will try to remember to wait a while and see if I like the ending to a certain chapter before posting it._

_So, what did everyone think of this chapter? I really want to know what worked here, what didn't, and what I can do to improve for the next chapter. Which hopefully should be out sooner. _

_I'm really sorry about the chapter delay. At first, I was hoping to produce a longer chapter, but at the rate at which things are looking, I think it's better off to make the Arena-centered chapters shorter and end on a cliffhanger. That way, the story will follow an escalating series of events that will eventually reach critical mass and result in something, well, explosive._

_Here is a fun fact about this chapter: The weapons Ada makes are based on real-life weapons made by prison inmates, which is something I recommend you guys google because it's astounding to see what someone can do with a limited supplies. Cracked's "9 Regular Objects Turned into Insane Prison Weapons" is a good place to start.  
_

_I wish I can show you the photos of the weapons I reference to, but this site won't let me embed links into my own stories._

_As you may have noticed already, I got a cover made by the wonderful Cheile. Thank you so much, darling. I absolutely love it._


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